Now he never said “Grandson!” unless something serious was the matter, so Titus hastened to him.
“What is it?” he asked, forgetting to stutter as he always did when greatly excited.
The Judge straightened himself. “I’ve had a blow. Read that—or listen. The writing is bad,” and he threw himself back in his chair and, putting on his glasses, took up the letter.
“Who is it from?” inquired Titus.
“Do you remember hearing me speak of Folsom, an old university friend of mine?”
“The fellow that was so crazy about work among the poor?”
“The same. Poor Folsom, he was always an enthusiast, but I considered him reliable. He became a clergyman and went to New York in connection with the mission work of some church. Listen to what he writes:
“‘My dear Sancroft: What a whiff of good times I have had this morning! I left the slums for a call on our dear old Georgeson of the Era, into whose pockets my hand is permitted to go pretty freely. I found him seated in his magnificent office, a financial king on his throne. He showed me your letter to him about a boy to adopt. “Georgeson,” said I, “I have just the thing.” He advised me to correspond with you, but what need is there of correspondence when I have the very article you want. An English actor died in my rooms the other day, a man of the highest respectability. He left one lad—a jewel of a boy, fair-haired and sunny-tempered. Just the companion you would wish for your own lad, who, if he resembles his grandfather, will be dark as to hair and eyes. This boy has absolutely not a relative in the world. He is a thorough gentleman; you will love him as a son. I have not time to hear from you. Will put him on one of the morning trains for Boston. You may expect him some time Thursday. Don’t forget my work among the poor. God has blessed you freely; freely give.
“‘Your old friend,
“‘Ralph Folsom.’”