"My feyther," he muttered; "old Jasper--'e ain't dead, then?"
"Not yet," I answered; "come, get up, and I'll tell you more while you eat." Mechanically he obeyed, sitting with his glowing eyes fixed upon my face the while I told him of old Jasper's lapse of memory and present illness.
"Then 'e don't remember as I'm a thief an' convict 49, master?"
"No; he thinks and speaks of you always as a boy and a pattern son."
The man uttered a strange cry, and flinging himself upon his knees buried his face in his hands.
"Come," I said, tapping him on the shoulder; "take off those things," and, nodding to the Imp, he immediately began unwrapping Peter's garments.
"What, master," cried the convict, starting up, "are you goin' to let me see 'im afore you give me up?"
"Yes," I nodded; "only be quick."
In less than five minutes the tattered prison dress was lying in the bed of the river, and we were making our way along the path towards old Jasper's cottage.
The convict spoke but once, and that as we reached the cottage gate: