“I'll just look back and see if it's the same name. I've probably got it here among the personals, if I can only find it. What was he imprisoned for?” he added. “He was serving a life sentence for murder, I think, John told me, but I won't be sure.” “The devil, you say!” ejaculated Ryder. “Yes, Roger Oakley, the name's the same.” “I knew I couldn't be mistaken. I got a pretty good memory for names and faces. Curious, ain't it, that he should turn up here?” Ryder smiled queerly as he dropped the _Herald_ files back into the rack. “His son is manager for Cornish here. He's the fellow I was telling you about.” Kenyon smiled, too. “I guess you won't have any more trouble with him. You've got him where you can hit him, and hit him hard whenever you like.” CHAPTER XI ROGER OAKLEY carried out his threat to find work for Jeffy. As soon as the outcast was able to leave his bed, he took him down to the car-shops, which were destined to be the scene of this brief but interesting industrial experiment. It was early morning, and they found only Clarence there. He was sweeping out the office--a labor he should have performed the night before, but, unless he was forcibly detained, he much preferred to let it go over, on the principle that everything that is put off till the morrow is just so much of a gain, and, in the end, tends to reduce the total of human effort, as some task must necessarily be left undone. As Roger Oakley pushed open the door and entered the office in search of his son, his charge, who slunk and shuffled after him with legs which bore him but uncertainly, cast a long and lingering look back upon the freedom he was leaving. The dignity of labor, on which his patron had been expatiating as they walked in the shortening shadows under the maples, seemed a scanty recompense for all he was losing. A deep, wistful sigh escaped his lips. He turned his back on the out-of-doors and peered over the old man's shoulder at Clarence with bleary eyes. Of course, he knew Clarence. This was a privilege not denied the humblest. Occasionally the urchin called him names, more often he pelted him with stones. The opportunities for excitement were limited in Antioch, and the juvenile population heedfully made the most of those which existed. Jeffy was a recognized source of excitement. It was not as if one stole fruit or ran away from school. Then there was some one to object, and consequences; but if one had fun with Jeffy there was none to object but Jeffy, and, of course, he didn't count. “Is my son here, Clarence?” asked Roger Oakley. “Nope. The whistle ain't blowed yet. I am trying to get the place cleaned up before he comes down,” making slaps at the desks and chairs with a large wet cloth. “What you going to do with him, Mr. Oakley?”