“Very well. I shall feel lonely without you, but you are probably better adapted to the business.”
While they were talking some one had come near. It was a boy—the picture of a penniless tramp, with the clothes almost literally falling off from him—a veritable ragamuffin, yet clean, bright-eyed, and with cheeks of a healthy brown. His face was fairly glowing with the joy of an unexpected discovery, as he rushed to the pair with the speed of a young whirlwind, and with hands outstretched, he exclaimed:
“Mr. Brush—doctor—don’t you know me?”
“Why, it’s Tom!” exclaimed honest Peter Brush, almost beside himself with joy. And he seized our hero, and gave him a bear-like hug. “Are you really alive?”
“I sha’n’t be long if you squeeze me like that!”
“Tom,” said Dr. Spooner, “I am just as glad to see you as our friend Brush, but I won’t show it in the same way.”
“Not to-night, at any rate.”
“Is your scalp all right, Tom?” asked Brush, anxiously.
Tom laughed, and pulling off a ragged and dirty hat, displayed an ample crop of chestnut hair.
“And now, Tom, tell us all about it,” said the doctor. “How did you get away, and what adventures have you had?”