When the meal was finished and Pipina was busy with clearing away the food that was left and performing her simple household tasks, Bomba sat down beside Casson and told the story of his journey.
Casson listened, holding Bomba’s brown hand affectionately in his weak, worn one, happy beyond words to have the boy back again with him. But it was with difficulty that the old man kept the thread of the story. At times he would interpose vague, irrelevant questions that showed how hard it was for him to understand.
“I saw Jojasta,” said Bomba, “but it was too late. He was dying. A pillar of the temple fell on him. And then the earth opened and swallowed him.”
“Jojasta? Jojasta?” repeated Casson, in a puzzled way. “Oh, yes, he was the medicine man of the Moving Mountain. But why did you want to see Jojasta?”
“Don’t you remember?” asked Bomba. “You told me that if I saw him he could tell me about my father and mother.”
“Father and mother,” murmured Casson, and lapsed into silence, during which he seemed to be cudgeling his poor, disordered brain to make it yield up its secrets.
“He thought I was Bartow when he saw me,” went on Bomba.
At the name the old man brightened.
“Bartow!” he exclaimed. “I have heard that name.”
“Is he my father?” asked Bomba eagerly.