Jeffreys started. He knew the voice, hoarse and choked as it was.
“What’s your name?” he said, raising the form in his arms and trying to see the face. “Who are you?”
“I’ve got no name! Why couldn’t you let me be?”
“Isn’t your name Trimble—Jonah Trimble?”
The poor fellow lifted his head with a little shriek.
“Oh, don’t give me up! Don’t have me taken up! Help me!”
“I will help you all I can, Trimble.”
“Why, you know me, then?—you’re—Who are you?”
“I’m John Jeffreys.”