"Well, we won't argue about that. If you've got any money to spare you'd better give it to him."
"What is your name?"
"Atkins—just Cap'n Atkins."
"Where do you get your mail?"
"Well, I don't get any to speak of. A letter sent in care of the wharfmaster will reach me all right."
DeGolyer got into a hack and was rapidly driven to the restaurant. Young Witherspoon had completed his work and was in the kitchen, sitting on a box with a dirty-looking bundle lying beside him.
"Come, Henry," DeGolyer said, taking his arm.
"No; not Henry—Hank. Henry's dead."
"Come, my boy."
Witherspoon looked up, and closing his eyes, pressed the tips of his fingers against them.