“It may be, and it may not,” I retorted. “I am David Ritchie.”
He changed before my eyes as he stared at me, and then, ere I knew it, he had me by both arms, crying out:—
“David Ritchie! My Davy—who ran away from me—and we were going to Kentucky together. Oh, I have never forgiven you,”—the smile that there was no resisting belied his words as he put his face close to mine—“I never will forgive you. I might have known you—you've grown, but I vow you're still an old man,—Davy, you renegade. And where the devil did you run to?”
“Kentucky,” I said, laughing.
“Oh, you traitor—and I trusted you. I loved you, Davy. Do you remember how I clung to you in my sleep? And when I woke up, the world was black. I followed your trail down the drive and to the cross-roads—”
“It was not ingratitude, Nick,” I said; “you were all I had in the world.” And then I faltered, the sadness of that far-off time coming over me in a flood, and the remembrance of his generous sorrow for me.
“And how the devil did you track me to the Widow Brown's?” he demanded, releasing me.
“A Mr. Jackson had a shrewd notion you were there. And by the way, he was in a fine temper because you had skipped a race with him.”
“That sorrel-topped, lantern-headed Mr. Jackson?” said Nick. “He'll be killed in one of his fine tempers. Damn a man who can't keep his temper. I'll race him, of course. And where are you bound now, Davy?”
“For Louisville, in Kentucky, at the Falls of the Ohio. It is a growing place, and a promising one for a young man in the legal profession to begin life.”