The confidence of the boy was easily won. He had felt an inexpressible desire to talk to some one, and now he was ready to lay open his whole heart at the first intimation of sympathy.
"I ran away from home," was the frank and truthful reply.
"But they do not put boys in jail for running away; you must have done something else."
"I was charged with something else; but indeed, indeed, I am innocent!"
"That is very possible," said he, with a sigh; "but what did they charge you with doing?"
And Rodney moved closer to him, and leaned his head upon his breast, and told him all. There was such an evident sincerity, such consistency, such tones of truth in the simple narrative, that he saw he was believed, and the sympathizing words and looks of the listener inspired him with trust, as though he was talking to a well-known friend.
For several days, they were constantly together; the stranger waited upon Rodney, and gave him his medicine, and helped him from his cot, talked with him, and manifested for him the kindness of a brother. From several conversations, Rodney gleaned from him the following history.
Lewis Warren,—so will we call him—(indeed, Rodney never knew his true name),—was born and had lived most of his life in a New England village. He was the son of a farmer; a pious man, and deacon of a church, by whose help he received a liberal education. Soon after he had graduated at —— College, he came on to Philadelphia, with the expectation of getting into some business. At the hotel where he stopped, he became acquainted with a man of very gentlemanly appearance and address, who said that he, too, was a stranger in the city, and proposed to accompany him to some places of amusement. Warren went with him to the theatre, and, on succeeding evenings, to various places of amusement. As they were one evening strolling up Chestnut-street, this friend, Mr. Sharpe, stopped at the well-lighted vestibule of a stately building, that had the air of a private house, although it was thrown open, and proposed that they should go in, and see what was going on there. Warren consented, and, after ascending to the second floor, and passing through a hall, they entered a large, brilliantly-lighted billiard saloon. Around several tables were gathered gentlemanly-looking men, knocking about little ivory balls, with long, slender wands or cues, and seeming, evidently, engrossed in their respective games. After looking around for a while, Sharpe proposed going up stairs into the third story. They ascended to the upper rooms. In the upper passage stood a stout, short negro-man, who glanced at Sharpe, stepped one side, and permitted them to pass unquestioned. They entered another smaller room,—for the third story was divided into several rooms,—and found other games than those exhibited below. After walking through some of the rooms, and observing the different games, most of which were new to Warren, his companion said to him:
"Do you understand anything about cards?"
"Not a great deal; I have occasionally played a game of whist or sledge."