“In regards to Joe Rodgers, my wife says if you can do better for him than Mr. Whiffin, and he can get some education, take the kid, and welcome. I guess he don’t owe Whiffin nothing.
“Maybe Joe ought to have a chance, as you say. But circumstances didn’t allow me to keep him, and knocking around the world ain’t good for a boy.
“Hoping that when he learns to write he’ll send me a letter, I am,
“Respectfully yours,
“Ben Hankerson.
“P. S. Of course I’ll expect to hear straight ahead how he’s getting along.”
That same afternoon all parties concerned met in the magistrate’s private office. Mr. Whiffin’s bellicose air had somewhat subsided, partly due to the fact that he had consulted a lawyer and received no encouragement.
“If I knew that the fat feller had made him run away I’d fight the case to the end,” he confided to Mr. Spudger. “But, bein’ as the kid says he didn’t—an’ he’s pretty straight goods regardin’ the truth—I guess I’ll have to pass him up.”
“And, after all, Whiffin,” said Spudger, reflectively, “the boy will get the chance he wants.”
“He sure could never make no animal tamer nor performer, an’ he ain’t got the face for a ringmaster,” said Peter Whiffin. “No; it would be the big wagon and long drives for him. Besides, the show business ain’t what it used ter be.”
“There ain’t nothin’ what is,” said Mr. Spudger. “An’ I guess they said the same thing a hundred years ago.”