The occupants of the place were watching the scene with dull curiosity; and the boy was trembling like a wild deer trapped.
“Yes, father, yes! Let us go home.”
“Home—home, my son? Will you take me home? Oh, I couldn’t bear to go!”
“But you must come home.”
“Do you mean that you still love me, son?”
“Yes, father, I still love you. I want to try to help you. Come with me.”
Then the boy would gaze about and ask, “Where is your hat?”
“Hat, my son? I don’t know. I have lost it.” The boy would see his torn and mud-stained clothing, and the poor old pitiful face, with the eyes blood-shot and swollen, and the skin, that had been rosy, and was now a ghastly, ashen gray. He would choke back his feelings, and grip his hands to keep himself together.
“Come, father, take my hat, and let us go.”
“No, my son. I don’t need any hat. Nothing can hurt me—I am lost! Lost!”