His endeavor to look grave and manly was not successful. He only impressed the sergeant as being curiously pitiful and pathetic; and the words, “Poor little chap,” burst almost involuntarily from his lips.
Eugene grew rather white; but he managed to bow again, and to say composedly, “Thank you, Mr. Officer.”
“When did your grandfather die?” asked the sergeant.
“Five days ago.”
“And was it sudden?”
“Extremely so. He came home from the town much fatigued. He lay down on his bed, rose up once, and called in a loud voice, ‘Eugene!’ I ran to him, but the breath had left him.”
“You have written to your relatives?” said the sergeant.
“Yes,” replied Eugene. “I sent a letter to my grand-uncle, who bought from the government the confiscated estate of my grandfather. I demanded money from him to enable me to live. If he sends it, all will be well. If not”—
“Well, if not,” said the sergeant, “there are plenty of people here who will look after you.”