He paused, then drew down his mouth and whined to gain her sympathy.
“I bought me a ticket to Chi—that’s Chicago—where I live, ma’am. Me muvver is sick. That feller stole my ticket and guv it to a friend, then threw me off.”
Mrs. Ransom struggled between the contrary emotions of pity and common sense. She knew the story was not true, yet he was so forlorn and hungry looking. Pity won.
“Here’s a dollar. Go buy yourself some food,” she said. Then, struck with an idea, she added sternly: “Promise you won’t drink it up.”
The tramp straightened up.
“Me, ma’am?” He was all injured innocence. “Why, ma’am, I never touch the stuff.”
The crowd chuckled. Tom Powers snorted disgust. He seized the man’s arm.
“What’s yuhr name?” he snapped.
The hobo glanced at the star on the sheriff’s coat and tried to slink away. Pinioned by the heavy hand, he cowered as if he expected a blow.
“Mister, I ain’t done nothin’. I’ll get out of town on the first train,” he pleaded.