So he sought Whalen out (he tried always to think of him by that name) and tried to square himself with his own conscience by a certain gentleness of friendship which spoke well for Tom. At such times he sought to reassure himself that Whalen suspected nothing and then he would feel guilty because of his friend’s apparent faith in him. If Tom had been a little older and a little more sophisticated perhaps he would not have felt the burden of this secret. He might have taken the view that if the government wanted his friend it was for the government to find him. Sometimes he did almost reach this attitude, but always the figure of poor old Henry Merrick loomed before him. Finally he resolved upon a certain course. He would tell Whalen that he knew his identity and he would speak of the murder and the state’s accusation. Whalen would deny his guilt. Then Tom would accept his denial and promise secrecy. There would be nothing wrong in shielding an innocent man.... So he waited one evening for Whalen to come up from where he was working putting up poles down the mountainside. The other men came along first and as usual Whalen followed a few minutes afterward. He came up the steep road with a spade over his shoulder, looking lonesome and weary. He wore a soiled white canvas jacket or rather smock, which gave him a little the appearance of a foreign peasant. He looked older than his years even, and Tom had no difficulty in recognizing his resemblance to old Caleb. It was noticeable mainly in a certain strained look, and in an unusual relation of the mouth to the nose. Also he had that far away look which was so eccentric in old Caleb but which in the younger man seemed wistful and to bespeak a certain lonesomeness. On this occasion even his walk suggested old Caleb, except that, oddly, old Caleb was very spry while the younger man seemed weary. Tom’s heart went out to him as he came up the hill. Tom felt very nervous and ill at ease. He did not know how to begin. He had never felt altogether at ease with Whalen, because Whalen had always treated him as a likable boy. He found it hard to put himself on a level with his friend. “What have you got there?” Tom asked, referring to something Whalen held in his cupped hand. “A problem,” Whalen said. “What do you mean, a problem?” Tom asked, seeing a tiny bird sitting very comfortably on a few wisps of grass in Whalen’s sheltering hand. “Why birds leave home,” said Whalen. “It’s a robin,” said Tom. “A feathered friend,” said Whalen. Tom had heard Audry Ferris speak of birds as feathered friends and he had a feeling now that this rescuer was poking fun at her phrases. In another moment he was certain of it. “I’m strong for service,” said Whalen. “Poor little codger, he must have fallen out of his nest.” “That’s your middle name—rescuing,” said Tom generously. “Service,” said Whalen. “She—she couldn’t be any kinder to a bird than you are,” Tom said. “Who?”