“Dick Armstrong.”
“Mine is Hiram Bond. You’ve been very kind to me. I don’t know what I should have done if you hadn’t turned up. Where do you live?”
“I don’t live anywhere just at present,” answered the boy, frankly.
“How is that?” asked Bond, with some surprise.
Dick gave him a brief outline of his life, and more particularly of his recent experiences.
“You’ve had a hard time of it,” said the man, feebly, “and I don’t wonder you cut loose from that storekeeper. I live in Albany, and make a living—not a very good one—with my team, carrying loads of stuff around the country. I just moved a family from the city suburbs to Wayback, some fifteen miles from here, and was on my return when I was took bad. I’m subject to spells of heart trouble, and I’m afraid I sha’n’t last long. I don’t feel at all good this morning. Perhaps I’ll feel better by and by. If you don’t mind staying with me till the afternoon, I may feel able to sit up in the wagon, and you can drive me back to the city. It’ll save you a walk of thirty odd miles.”
Dick immediately agreed to this proposition, and then his eyes resting on the pile of rosy apples he had brought in, an idea struck him.
“There’s an orchard back of the barn that’s full of this kind of apples,” he said, showing a couple to Bond. “If you don’t mind, I could load the wagon with them, and we could sell them at a good profit in Albany. They’re only going to waste here, and as your wagon is empty, it’s a chance for both of us to make a stake.”
“Do so, my lad, if you think there’s anything in it for you. I won’t touch a cent of what you may get. I’ll give you the use of the team for what you’ve done for me already.”
Dick was delighted and thanked him heartily.