Tode bestowed a very searching look on the earnest little old woman in answer to this, and then spoke rapidly:
"I shouldn't wonder one bit if you was our Jim's mother down at the Euclid House—that's where I lived, and that's where he lives, only he don't sleep there—he sleeps with his brother Rick, down at the livery stable. Now, ain't they your two boys?"
"They are so!" the old lady answered, speaking as eagerly as he had done.
"And so you know them! Well, now, don't things work around queer?" Then she shut the door and locked it, and came over to Tode so close that her cap frills almost touched his curly head, before she whispered her next sentence:
"Now, I know you will tell me just the truth. Do them two boys of mine touch the bottles for themselves?"
How gently and pitifully Tode answered the poor mother! "I guess they do, a little—all the fellows do, except just me—they don't think it's any harm."
"I knew it, I knew it!" she said, pitifully. "Their father would, and they will."
Then, after a moment, she rallied.
"But I don't give up hope for 'em, not a bit, and I ain't going to so long as I can pray for 'em. Now I'll tell you what we'll do. The Lord has sent you to help me, I do guess—I asked him if I couldn't have somebody just to give me a lift with them. You'll have Jim's room, and when he comes you'll be just nice and comfortable together, seeing you know each other. Rick, he never comes home for all night, 'cause he can't get away. And then you'll help me keep an eye on Jim, and say a word to him now and then when you can, and pray for him every single day—will you now?"
So when the night closed in, Tode's bundle was unpacked, and his clothes hung on Jim's nails, and once again he had a home.