So Billy slept through the first long journey he had taken since he came to live with Aunt Saxon, slept profoundly with an oblivion that almost amounted to coma. Sometimes the man, looking back, was tempted to stop and see if the boy was yet alive, but a light touch on the hot forehead showed him that life was not extinct, and they whirled on.
Three hours later Billy was awakened by a sharp shake of his sore shoulder and a stinging pain that shot through him like fire. Fire! Fire! He was on fire! That was how he felt as he opened his eyes and glared at the stranger:
“Aw, lookout there, whatterya doin'?” he blazed, “Whadda ya think I am? A football? Don't touch me. I'll get out. This the place? Thanks fer tha ride, I was all in. Say, d'ya know a guy by the name of Shafton?”
“Shafton?” asked the man astonished, “are you going to Shafton's?”
“Sure,” said Billy, “anything wrong about that? Where does he hang out?” The look of Billy, and more than all the smell of him made it quite apparent to the casual observer that he had been drinking, and the man eyed him compassionately. “Poor little fool! He's beginning young. What on earth does he want at Shaftons?”
“I'spose you've come down after the reward,” grinned the man, “I could have saved you the trouble if you'd told me. The kidnapped son has got home. They are not in need of further information.”
Billy gave him a superior leer with one eye closed:
“You may not know all there is to know about that,” he said impudently, “where did you say he lived?”
The man shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
“Suit yourself,” he said, “I doubt if they'll see you. They have had nothing but a stream of vagrants for two days and they're about sick of it. They live on the next estate and the gateway is right around that corner.”