“What about your grandchild?” said Barry. “What about that imp Cracker that no one else can manage?”
The old man’s head sank, and he looked thoughtful.
“How many times has she saved him from the police court? Old Cracker, you are an ungrateful wretch. Come now, aint you?”
The poor old fellow’s head sank lower. His young grandchild was all he had in the world. “I believe I be,” he said, slowly. “I believe I be.”
Barry looked out the window. “’Most dark; I can be going. Seen any strangers about, Cracker, senior?” he asked, as he turned his coat collar well up about his ears and pulled his cap down over his eyes.
“No, no—no strangers, only fish,” replied the caretaker; “only fish, fish, fish,” and Barry left him mumbling to himself.
With a quick, alert step the dark-featured, middle-aged man left River Street, went up one of the slightly ascending side streets that led to Broadway, quickly crossed the brilliantly lighted and crowded thoroughfare, and struck into a succession of quiet streets that finally led him to Grand Avenue.
Little by little the appearance of the houses had improved, until here on Grand Avenue he found himself among mansions.
Arrived near Judge Sancroft’s house, he walked more slowly, then suddenly he turned, and retracing his steps walked up the driveway leading to the stable.
His keen eyes scrutinized every window of the house. Here and there one was open. “They all like fresh air,” he murmured. Under one open window he paused. He could hear the sound of voices. Dallas was speaking—Dallas the clever English boy that the Judge had adopted—and he was scolding Bethany, dear little Bethany.