He entered it anxiously, and not without misgivings. Tom Drift was sitting on his little bench with his head in his hands.
“May I come in?” said Jim, nervously.
Tom neither spoke nor raised his head; and Jim quietly stepped in. It was evident the interview of a week ago had had its effect on Tom Drift. He seemed as he sat there like a man who would fain lose himself if he only knew how. He never once raised his head from his hands or uttered a syllable while Jim sat and talked to him. The latter knew better than to return to the topic which had so startled the prisoner a week ago, and contented himself with mere kindly talk and the reading of a short passage of Scripture. All this Tom suffered without interruption, stirring neither head nor foot all the time.
“Now, good-bye,” said Jim, rising; “don’t get to think you have no friends.”
The man fidgeted impatiently, and next moment Jim was out in the gallery.
“What’s that man’s name?” he inquired of the turnkey.
“Dykes; and I tell you what, Mr Halliday, he—”
“Open this door, please, my man,” interrupted Jim, by way of cutting him short.
During the week which followed Jim was restless and out of spirits. He seemed unable to settle down to anything, and it was evident his heart was ill at ease—why, it was easy to guess. He had found Tom Drift, and there was a chance of rescuing him. But how to do it? How to approach one who was ashamed of his own name, and who repelled with an oath every offer of help?
Long and earnestly did my master think over the matter. He also wrote a long letter to Charlie, telling him all, and promising to do all that could be done for the poor prodigal. During the days that intervened before his next visit, too, he made as careful and full inquiries about Tom as it was possible to do.