“Mother,” he said, earnestly, “I mean to seek for that man you have told me of. I want to find out who I am. Do you think he was my father?”
“He said he was, but I do not believe it. He spoke with hesitation, and said this to deceive us, probably.”
“I am glad you think so, I would not like to think him my father. From what you have told me of him I am sure I would not like him.”
“He must be nearly fifty now—dark complexion, with dark hair and whiskers. I am afraid that description will not help you any. There are many men who look like that. I should know him by his expression, but I cannot describe that to you.”
Here Mrs. Fowler was seized with a very severe fit of coughing, and Frank begged her to say no more.
Two days later, and Mrs. Fowler was no better. She was rapidly failing, and no hope was entertained that she would rally. She herself felt that death was near at hand and told Frank so, but he found it hard to believe.
On the second of the two days, as he was returning from the village store with an orange for his mother, he was overtaken by Sam Pomeroy.
“Is your mother very sick, Frank?” he asked.
“Yes, Sam, I’m afraid she won’t live.”
“Is it so bad as that? I do believe,” he added, with a sudden change of tone, “Tom Pinkerton is the meanest boy I ever knew. He is trying to get your place as captain of the baseball club. He says that if your mother doesn’t live, you will have to go to the poorhouse, for you won’t have any money, and that it will be a disgrace for the club to have a captain from the poorhouse.”