"Try to think what was your father's name," persisted Mr. Tompkins, hoping to discover something.
"My father's name was Jacob, and I was sold a slave into Egypt by my brothers; but there must be something wrong; my father must be dead."
Again he seated himself on the low stool and buried his face in his hands.
"It's no use," said the landlord; "that's as near as you'll ever come to knowing who he is from him. I have advertised him in the Pittsburg daily, but no one has come yet to claim him."
"A very strange hallucination," said the Carolinian. "Is he always mild?"
"Yes; he is never cross or sullen, and seems delighted with children. He answers them in many ways."
It was growing late, and the weary travelers were ready to go to bed. The landlord assisted by Crazy Joe and another boy, took lighted candles to the various rooms for the guests.
By the combined aid of a good supper, a warm discussion on slavery, and his interest in the insane boy, Mr. Tompkins had succeeded in fighting away the legion of gloomy thoughts that harassed his mind, and a few minutes after retiring was sleeping peacefully.