“You must not feel that way about all tramps,” said she. “Sometimes they are deserving of our charity, and ought to be helped. There is a great difference in them.” “That may be,” I said; “but what of this one? When was he here, and when did he go?” “He did not go at all. He is here now.” “Here now!” I cried. “Where is he?” “Do not call out so loud,” said Euphemia, putting her hand on my arm. “You will waken him. He is asleep.” “Asleep!” said I. “A tramp? Here?” “Yes. Stop, let me tell you about him. He told me his story, and it is a sad one. He is a middle-aged man--fifty perhaps--and has been rich. He was once a broker in Wall street, but lost money by the failure of various railroads--the Camden and Amboy, for one.” “That hasn't failed,” I interrupted. “Well then it was the Northern Pacific, or some other one of them--at any rate I know it was either a railroad or a bank,--and he soon became very poor. He has a son in Cincinnati, who is a successful merchant, and lives in a fine house, with horses and carriages, and all that; and this poor man has written to his son, but has never had any answer. So now he is going to walk to Cincinnati to see him. He knows he will not be turned away if he can once meet his son, face to face. He was very tired when he stopped here,--and he has ever and ever so far to walk yet, you know,--and so after I had given him something to eat, I let him lie down in the outer kitchen, on that roll of rag-carpet that is there. I spread it out for him. It is a hard bed for one who has known comfort, but he seems to sleep soundly.” “Let me see him,” said I, and I walked back to the outer kitchen. There lay the unsuccessful broker fast asleep. His face, which was turned toward me as I entered, showed that it had been many days since he had been shaved, and his hair had apparently been uncombed for about the same length of time. His clothes were very old, and a good deal torn, and he wore one boot and one shoe. “Whew!” said I. “Have you been giving him whisky?” “No,” whispered Euphemia, “of course not. I noticed that smell, and he said he had been cleaning his clothes with alcohol.” “They needed it, I'm sure,” I remarked as I turned away. “And now,” said I, “where's the girl?” “This is her afternoon out. What is the matter? You look frightened.” “Oh, I'm not frightened, but I find I must go down to the station again. Just run up and put on your bonnet. It will be a nice little walk for you.” I had been rapidly revolving the matter in my mind. What was I to do with this wretch who was now asleep in my outer kitchen? If I woke him up and drove him off,--and I might have difficulty in doing it,--there was every reason to believe that he would not go far, but return at night and commit some revengeful act. I never saw a more sinister-looking fellow. And he was certainly drunk. He must not be allowed to wander about our neighborhood. I would go for the constable and have him arrested.