The old man was a wilder-looking figure than usual. He had no
hat on, and a bloody cloth bound around his head confined the straggling
gray locks quaintly. The face was ghastly, the clothing in tatters, and
his hands trembled as they clutched a bandanna evidently full of some
small articles that rattled together in his shaking grasp.
"Good Lord--Pros! You mighty nigh scared me out of a year's growth,"
grumbled Pap, hitching vainly to throw his chair back into position.
"Come in. Come in. You look like you'd been seein' trouble."
"Whar's Johnnie?" repeated old Pros hollowly.
It was the younger man who answered this time, with an ugly lift of the
lip over his teeth, between a sneer and a snarl.
"She's gone gaddin' around with some of her swell friends. She may be
home before midnight, an' then again she may not," he said.
The old man collapsed on the lower step.
"I wish't Johnnie was here," he said querulously. "I--" he looked about
him confusedly--"I've found her silver mine."
At the words the two on the porch became suddenly rigid. Then Buckheath
sprang down the steps, caught Passmore under the arm-pits and half led,
half dragged him up to a chair, into which he thrust him with
little ceremony.
He stood before the limp figure, peering into the newcomer's face with
eyes of greed and hands that clenched and unclenched themselves
automatically.
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