"Man, man!" he cried, "you're misjudging both me and yourself, I don't
know this fellow Melville. You don't know him, either. But I do know
Thursday Smith, who has won my confidence and by his manly acts, and
I'll stand by him through thick and thin!"
"I am Harold Melville—the gambler—the confidence man."
"You're nothing of the sort, you're just Thursday Smith, and no more responsible for Harold Melville than I am."
"Hooray!" exclaimed Patsy Doyle enthusiastically. "Uncle's right,
Thursday. You're our friend, and the mainstay of the Millville Daily
Tribune. We shall not allow you to desert us just because you've
discovered that your—your—ancestor—wasn't quite respectable."
"That's it, exactly," asserted Beth. "It's like hearing a tale of an ancestor, Thursday, or of some member of your family who lived before you. You cannot be responsible, in any way, for another man's wickedness."
"As I look at it," said Louise reflectively, "you are just two years old, Thursday, and innocent of any wrongdoing before that day you first found yourself."
"There's no use our considering Melville at all," added Uncle John cheerfully. "I'm sorry we ever heard of him, except that in one way it clears up a mystery. Thursday Smith, we like you and trust you. Do not doubt yourself because of this tale. I'll vouch for your fairness and integrity. Forget Melville, who has never really existed so far as any of us are concerned; be yourself, and count on our friendship and regard, which Thursday Smith has fairly won."
Hetty was crying softly, her cheek laid against Thursday's sleeve. The man stood as if turned to stone, but his cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling, and his head proudly poised.
Fogerty lighted a fresh cigarette, watching the scene with an imperturbable smile.
Suddenly Smith awoke to life. He half turned, looked wonderingly at Hetty, and then folded her thin form in his arms and pressed a kiss on her forehead.