“Silas Maslin!” exclaimed the gentleman, in great excitement. “Did he not once live at Franconia, New Hampshire?”
“That’s right. He did,” replied Dick.
“And you are the boy who at the age of five was left in his care and never was called for?”
“Why—why, how did you know that?” asked Dick, in astonishment.
“Because I am the man who left you with Mr. Maslin. I am your father, George Armstrong, and you are the son I have searched for for years, but could gain no trace of. My boy—my dear, dear boy, this is a strange, though none the less a providential meeting.”
He held out his arms to Dick, and the lad, though of course it could not be expected that he had retained any recollection of his parent, instinctively felt that this man was indeed the father he had long yearned to know, but hardly expected to see in this world.
Needless to say the two embraced right there in the street, to the silent wonder of Jennie Nesbitt and young Maslin, neither of whom quite comprehended the meaning of it all.
At this interesting juncture Mudgett sat up and stared around him like one recovering from an ugly dream, while almost at the same moment, a big policeman came sauntering around the corner, swinging his club negligently to and fro as if such a thing as trouble on his beat was very far from his thoughts.
Luke saw him at once and started to run, but Mr. Armstrong blocked his way.
“Don’t let him arrest me!” he begged, appealing to Dick.