“There, now you know everything, Elmer; do you think you still care to be chummy with the son of——”
“Stop right there, Amos!” commanded Elmer, gruffly, for he was in reality almost choking with emotion himself in sympathy with the poor chap at his side, who wanted so to cling to him, and yet determinedly pushed himself away, as if feeling not worthy to associate with fellows upon whose heads no such dark shadow rested. “If anything, you’re more my chum than ever. A pretty pal I’d be to hold back when you’re in need of sympathy. And both Perk and Wee Willie will say the same thing, you can bank on it.”
Amos drew a long lingering breath as of intense relief. He also seemed on the point of breaking down again, seeing which Elmer hastened to add:
“Now brace up, old fellow, and begin to believe things may not be quite so black as they seem. One thing you can depend on, that not a living soul in all Chester will ever know about your trouble through any of us. We’ll keep your secret, and not even drop a hint to our folks at home. You’re certain about that knife once being your father’s, are you Amos?”
“Oh! absolutely!” exclaimed the other; “I’d know it anywhere, for it used to be a great wonder to me. Besides, I saw his initials scratched on the handle, just as in the old days. Father had owned that knife a long time, and used to think a heap of it.”
Elmer remembering how the unknown tramp had hung around all this time just to recover the knife, could not help feeling that the present possessor must also have considerable affection for the thing, whoever he might turn out to be.
“But during seven years it could easily have fallen into other hands, you understand,” continued Elmer. “It might have been lost, or stolen, in fact, passed through a variety of adventures by now.”
“I think you mean to say that if my father died some one with him at the time would have taken possession of the knife,” remarked Amos, again drawing a long breath; “which is perfectly true. I am not saying that I believe the tramp to be my poor unfortunate dad; but it was the sight of the knife turning up in this queer way after all these years that unnerved me so.”
“What sort of a man was your father, Amos—I mean did he happen to be tall, or short; and was he athletic or otherwise?” continued Elmer, evidently with some object in view; at least the other suspected as much, for he turned to look inquiringly into his face before answering.
“Why,” Amos went on presently, “you see, he never could play football or baseball when a boy because he had one leg a bit shorter than the other. This didn’t interfere with his walking at all; because I’ve tramped many miles alongside him, for we were always—quite—chummy.”