"Fifteen or sixteen, I've forgotten which. You see he isn't my own son; I married his mother, who was a widder with two children; that's the way of it."
"I suppose he doesn't live with you."
"No; he's an undootiful boy. He haint no gratitude for all I've done for him. He wouldn't care if I starved in the street."
"That shows a bad disposition," said Smith, who seemed disposed to protract the conversation for some purposes of his own.
"Yes," said Martin, wiping his eyes pathetically with a red handkerchief; "he's an ungrateful young scamp. He's set my little daughter Rose ag'inst me,—she that set everything by me till he made her believe all sorts of lies about me."
"Why don't you come up with him?"
"I don't know how."
"I suppose you would have no objections if I should tell you."
"No," said Martin, hesitating; "that is, if it aint dangerous. If I should give him a lickin' in the street, he'd call the police, and swear I wasn't his father."
"That isn't what I mean. I'll think it over, and tell you by and by. Now we'll talk about business."