“I’ll give them to Jim,” he said aloud, his eyes lingering on the books and on the shells and curios over the mantel.
With feverish haste he began collecting a few necessaries into a traveling-bag. It was packed and strapped when there came a knock at the door. At so unusual an occurrence Hustler Joe started guiltily. Then he crossed the room and threw wide the door.
The bent form of an old woman with two frightened eyes peering out from beneath a worn shawl confronted him.
“Has he been here?” she whispered, stepping into the room and glancing furtively around her.
“He! Who?”
“Then he hasn’t, or you’d know it,” she answered in a relieved tone; but her expression changed almost instantly, and her frail form shook with terror. “But he may come! You wouldn’t give him up—you’re Hustler Joe, ain’t ye? They say you’re good an’ kind. Oh, you wouldn’t give him up!”
A strange look came into the miner’s eyes.
“No, I wouldn’t give him up,” he said, after a moment. “But who is he? And who are you?”
“I’m his mother, sir. He didn’t know anyone was livin’ here,” she apologized, “an’ he sent me a bit of paper sayin’ he’d meet me here tonight. Oh, sir, they’d hang him if they got him! Hang him!” she shuddered.
Hustler Joe’s lips twitched, then settled into stern lines.