He could not be mistaken in the peculiarly maimed hand stretched out to regain the hat.
Its owner fled as if for his life, but, weak from disease and famine, could not distance his pursuer.
At last, finding the latter close at his heels, he stopped and faced him, leaning, panting and trembling, against a wall.
"George Boyd, is it you? reduced to such a condition as this!" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore, eying him searchingly.
"You've mistaken your man, sir," panted the fugitive. "My name's Brown—Sam Brown at your service."
"Then why did you run away from me?" coolly inquired the gentleman. "No, I cannot mistake that hand," pointing to the maimed member.
"And you'd like to hang me, I suppose," returned the other bitterly. "But I don't believe you could do it here. Beside, what's the use? I'll not cumber the ground much longer, can't you see that? Travilla himself," he added, with a fierce oath, "can hardly wish me anything worse than I've come to. I'm literally starving—can hardly get enough food to keep soul and body together from one day to another."
"Then come with me and I will feed you," Mr. Dinsmore said, his whole soul moved with pity for the miserable wretch. "Yonder is a restaurant; let us go there, and I will pay for all you can eat."
"You don't mean it?" cried Boyd in incredulous surprise.
"I do; every word of it. Will you come?"