“What is it, Jack?” asked Billy quickly.
“Look at that chap there reading a paper. It’s Donald Judson—Donald Judson, as sure as you’re a foot high!”
CHAPTER XVIII.—DONALD JUDSON AGAIN.
Jack was right; the boy sitting in the reading room was indeed the formerly ne’er-do-well son of the man who had headed the plot to steal the naval code, though what he could be doing in Bomobori neither of the boys could guess. But so changed was he in appearance from the flashily-dressed, aggressively-conceited Donald Judson they had known, that for a moment both boys doubted the evidence of their eyes.
Donald had always, in the past, been inclined to dudishness in his clothes. Now his clothing was dilapidated and torn, his shoes were old canvas ones that looked ready to fall apart, and he had a scarecrow of a battered straw hat on his head.
Moreover, his face was careworn and his cheeks hollow and one eye appeared to have suffered a blow of some sort for it was blackened and swollen. Altogether he was a most woebegone looking specimen of humanity, and the boys wondered he was suffered about the hotel. Donald’s presence there, however, was later accounted for, although this, of course, the boys did not know, by a long tale of disaster and suffering he had sustained while gold hunting in the interior. Donald said he was expecting remittances from America and on this account had been accommodated with quarters.
“My gracious, what a change,” exclaimed Billy under his breath. “He looks like a regular scarecrow.”
“He must have been in mighty tough luck,” rejoined Jack. “But what beats me is what he is doing here. It’s a very odd coincidence that we should run into two of our old enemies on this trip.”
“It is, indeed. But see, he is looking at us. I suppose we ought to speak to the poor chap.”