His pallid, emaciated face showed poverty and privation, an air of utter misery surrounded him, and he had a mournful look in his sunken eyes.
Nobody noticed poor Joe Crosby but the police.
He was then only one of the many waifs of the great city.
Tom Reynard, the detective, had seen him stealing along like a thief, and the zealous officer became so suspicious of the boy’s actions that he began to follow him.
Perhaps he was justified in doing this, for the hoodlums of Chicago were a pretty bad set of rowdies, as a rule.
The detective was a middle aged, sharp, shrewd fellow, of medium size, clad in a black suit and derby hat, his bony face clean shaven, his keen blue eyes snapping with fire, and his reputation for ability the very finest.
He kept the skulking boy well in view and was a little bit startled to see him mount the stoop of a very handsome brown stone house, through the parlor windows of which, partly open at the top, there gleamed a dull light.
Instead of the poor little wretch making an attempt to break into the house as the detective expected, he boldly rang the bell.
A servant answered the summons, and, seeing the boy, she cried:
“What! Joe Crosby—you back home again?”