Among the passengers was a young man who looked to be about twenty-five. His name was Crawford Lane. He wore a light overcoat, a showy necktie, a low-cut vest, and was in appearance a very good specimen of the Bowery swell.
He joined Scott as he was standing on deck, trying to catch the first glimpse of land.
"Well, my young friend," he said, affably, "I suppose that you, like the rest of us, are glad to be near port."
"I don't know," replied Scott, listlessly.
"Of course you miss your father."
"Oh, so much!" said the boy, the tears coming into his eyes. "For years we have lived together and been constant companions."
"Just so! My father died five years ago, and I often miss him."
"But you doubtless have other relatives, while he was all I had," explained Scott.
"Yes, I have other relatives. An uncle of mine is the present mayor of Chicago. Of course, you have heard of Chicago."