“But who is Ed Farmer?” asked Mary. The name had meant nothing to her so far. And yet, even as she spoke she remembered. Her expression changed.
“Do you mean—” she cried, eagerly. “Why, Isaiah, do you mean the man in that old photograph I found in the garret ever and ever so long ago? The one you told me was a—a blackguard?”
Isaiah, still staring at Mr. Smith's likeness, answered emphatically.
“That's the one,” he said. “That's the one I meant. My, this feller does look like him, or the way I cal'late he would look if he lived as long as this!”
“Is he dead, then?”
“I don't know. We don't any of us know around here. I ain't laid eyes on him since the day afore it happened. I remember just as well as if 'twas yesterday. He come out of the office onto the wharf where I was workin' and he says to me, 'Isaiah,' he says, knockin' on the head of a barrel with his hand—the right hand 'twas, the one that had the bent finger; he got it smashed under a hogshead of salt one time and it never came straight again—'Isaiah,' says he, 'it's a nice day, ain't it.' And I answered up prompt—I liked him fust-rate; everybody liked him them days—'Yes, sir,' I says, 'this is a good enough day to go see your best girl in.' I never meant nothin' by it, you understand, just a sayin' 'twas, but it seemed to give him a kind of start. He looked at me hard. 'Did anyone tell you where I was goin'?' says he, sharp. 'Why, no,' says I. 'Why should they?' He didn't answer, just kept on starin' at me. Then he laughed and walked away. I didn't know where he was goin' then, but I know now, darn him! And the next day he went—for good.”
He stopped speaking. Mary waited a moment and then asked, quietly: “Went where, Isaiah? Where did he go?”
Isaiah, who was standing, the photograph still in his hand, started, turned and looked at her.
“What's that?” he asked.
“I say, where did this Mr. Farmer go?”