Ralph sat back in a chair in his friend’s den, and waited to hear the decision of the one in whose opinion he had such faith.
“It seems as clear as print to me, and I’m tickled nearly to death at the way things are turning out It was mighty nice in you coming here to-night on the way home, and relieving my anxiety,” said the other, vigorously wringing the hand of his visitor.
“But I had a double motive. I hoped to see your Uncle Jim, and now you tell me he’s away for the night—gone with your father to see a sick friend over the mountain, and won’t be back until morning. But what do you make of all this strange story?”
“That pretended Mr. Andrew Jackson is, of course, Arnold Musgrove. And you are the baby he turned over to Sam Smalling years ago. This picture is what will clinch matters, if he puts up any denial. As to just who you are, I have strong suspicions, I must say,” returned Frank.
Then he wrote something on paper and thrust it before Ralph.
“How would you like to start out fresh under that name, eh?”
“Jack Langworthy!” read Ralph, and then threw himself suddenly forward so that his arms clasped Frank around the neck.
Nature had given way. So long had he been fighting to hold in his emotions that he could control himself no longer.
“I know I’m a fool and a baby to do this, but it just seemed as though something broke loose and swamped me,” he said, finally, as he wiped the moisture from his eyes, and tried to smile in Frank’s face.
“I don’t blame you a bit. In fact, I think you’ve done bully to hold in so long. And then the strain of that game to-day was enough alone to knock the props out from under any fellow. But cheer up, Ralph! It’s going to be all right now, for the sky has brightened, and I bet a cookey you find a loving mother inside another month. Just think of it, will you? Hurrah! But I say, it’ll take an everlasting long time to learn to say Langworthy instead of West; for it’s a big mouthful.”