She lifted her faded dress, brushed the tears from her cheeks and went on rapidly:
“When I found his drunken brute of a daddy was a liar and had another wife, I wouldn't live with him. He tried to make me but I kicked him out of the house—and he stole the boy to get even with me.” Her voice broke, she dropped her head and choked back the tears. “He did get even with me, too—he did,” she sobbed.
Jim watched her in silence until the paroxysm had spent itself.
“You think you'd know this boy now if you found him?”
She bent close, her breath coming in quick gasps.
“My God, mister, do you think I COULD find him?”
“He lives in New York; his name is Jim Anthony.”
“Yes—yes?” she said in a dazed way. “He called hisself Walter Anthony—he wuz a stranger from the North and my boy's name was Jim.” She paused and bent eagerly across the table. “New York's an awful big place, ain't it?”
“Some town, old gal, take it from me.”
“COULD I find him?”