The thought terrified him. Sick out here on the highway, only a few cents in his pockets, and not a friend anywhere about!
It was growing hot and he was getting hungry. His breakfast had been a very light one. The last regular meal he had eaten was on the Chicago Limited. How long ago that seemed now!
He took out his money and counted it over. There was but sixteen cents left. He felt that he could eat that much worth for his very next meal.
There seemed to be no way out of it but to telegraph home, and he had better do it, he decided, before he was too ill to attend to it.
But there was no place now from which to send a message. He must keep on till he came to the next town.
He rose to his feet and had taken but a few steps when some one came up from behind and touched him on the shoulder.
He turned quickly, in fear of another tramp. It was a tramp truly, but a mere boy, not much older than himself. He was very pale and sickly looking, his clothes were torn in two or three places and his shoes were worn clear down to the uppers.
He did not speak. He stood there looking at Rex, amazement depicted in his gaze.
“I—I made a mistake,” he stammered out at last “I thought you were one of us. I saw you lying down there under the tree. Your shoes were all dusty. I knew you’d been tramping.”
But Rex did not feel astonished. He felt so ill and faint that his head swam, and he began to totter.