“I’ll never forget how he struck you once when your arm was broken,” said Marion, slowly. “He was not fit to be keeper of the Poor Farm—he ought to be in prison!”
“Well, I’ll have to go back to him if they catch me,” muttered Bert, “and he’ll flog me every day for two years, I suppose. You know I was to stay there until I was eighteen—so much for being an orphan! Any one would think I was a criminal!”
Marion’s mouth was curving in hard lines now, very much as it had curved when she was planning the search for her sister. She pondered intently a moment or two, then her sister knew by her voice that she had thought out a solution.
“Is Matt here looking for you, Bert?” she asked, very softly.
“I think so,” said the boy, “and I saw Silas Johnson here, too. One of the boys at the office said a man had been there looking for me. He described him accurately. I am sure it was Matt Jenkins.”
“What did your employer do?” asked Marion again.
Bert’s eyes snapped with pleasure as he drew a ten dollar bill from his pocket.
“He gave me this and told me I’d be safer somewhere else,” he answered, smiling. “Oh, it was lucky I was out when Matt Jenkins called on him!”
“He gave you good advice,” said Marion, “and I repeat it. Bert; you’d be safer somewhere else than in our room to-night, for Silas Johnson knows we live here, and he’s likely to come here. You must go away quick, but, where, is the question.”
“I won’t leave New York!” said Bert, determinedly.