This was a question that Tom never expected to have asked him by strangers. Did he carry the marks of the cruel wrong he had done his uncle and Jerry Lamar upon his face so that anybody could read them? The next time he passed a mirror he would look into it and see.
"What is your name?" asked the stranger suddenly.
"Tom Mason."
"Mine is Bolton—Jasper Bolton; and, Tom, I am glad to see you. Put it there. What have you been doing?"
"Not a thing, sir. My uncle has got the money back all right before this time."
"Ah! Money, was it? How much?"
"Five thousand dollars."
"Five thousand dollars! W-h-e-w! You didn't try to kill anybody in order to get away with it?"
"No, sir. I shot a couple of nigger dogs that were on my trail, but if you knew the circumstances, you would say I did right," said Tom, who had suddenly made up his mind to make a confidant of Mr. Bolton. "It was just this way."
And then Tom straightened around on his seat and faced his new friend and told him his story, being interrupted occasionally with such expressions as "Ah! yes," and "I see," which led him to believe that he was making out a better case against his uncle than he was against himself.