"Partner, shake!" he says in tones of marked admiration. "Ye're clean grit! If ye're my sister, I'm proud of ye. If ye ain't, and ye 'pear to think ye ain't, then it's my loss, an'," with a leer at the old pair, "yer gain. Anyhow, I'm yer second in this young-un business. Ye kin stay right here, ef ye want ter, and, by thunder, ef the old uns have got yer little gal, ye shall have her back agin--ye hear me! Ain't ye goin' ter shake? I wish yer would. I'm a rough feller, Missy; I've allers been a hard case, and I've just got over a penitentiary stretch--ye'll hear o'

that soon enough, ef ye stay here. The old un likes to remind me of it when she ain't amiable. Never mind that; maybe I ain't all bad. Anyway, I'm goin' to stand by ye, and don't ye feel oneasy."

Again he extends his hand, and Leslie looks at it, and then up into his face.

"Oh, if I could trust you!" she murmurs. "If you would help me!"

"I _kin_;" says Franz promptly, "an' I _will_!"

Again she hesitates, looking upon the uncouth figure and the unwashed hand. Then she lifts her eyes to his face.

Two eyes are looking into her own, eagerly, intently, full of pitying anxiety.

She rises slowly, looks again into the eager eyes, and extends her hand.

"Gracious!" he exclaims, as he releases it, "how nervous yer are: must be awful tired."

"Tired, yes. I have walked all the way."

"An' say, no jokin' now, _have_ ye come ter live with us?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Partner, shake. Ye're clean grit!"--page 304.]

"I have," she replies firmly; "unless," turning a contemptuous glance toward Mamma and Papa, "my _parents_ refuse me a shelter."

It is probable that these overtures from Franz would have been promptly interrupted, had not Papa and Mamma, seeing the necessity of exchanging a few words, improved this opportunity to understand each other, and as they exchanged hasty whispers, any vagueness or hiatus in their speech was fully supplied by meaning glances. And now quite up in her role, Mamma again advances.

"My child," she begins, in a dolorous voice, "when ye know us better, ye'll think better of yer poor old folks. As fer Franz here, he's been drinkin' a little to-night, but he's a good-hearted boy; don't mind him."

"No," interrupts Franz, with a maudlin chuckle; "don't mind _me_."

"It's a poor home yer come to, Leschen," continues Mamma, "and a poor bed I can give ye. But we want to be good to ye, dear, an' if ye're really goin' to stay with us, we'll try an' make ye as comfortable as we can."

Leslie's head droops lower and lower; she pays no heed to the old woman's words.

"Poor child, she is tired out."

Saying this, Mamma takes the candle from the table, and goes from the room quickly, thus leaving the three in darkness.

In another moment, the voice of Franz breaks out:

"Ain't there another glim somewhere?"

By the time Mamma returns, a feeble light is sputtering upon the table, and Franz is awkwardly trying to force upon Leslie some refreshments from the choice supply left from their late repast. But she refuses all, and wearily follows Mamma from the room.

"Git yer rest now," says Franz as she goes; "to-morrow we'll talk over this young-un business."

But when the morrow comes, and for many days after, Leslie Warburton is oblivious to all things earthly.

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE PRODIGAL BECOMES OBSTINATE.

When the door had closed behind Leslie and the old woman, Franz Francoise dropped his chin upon his breast, and leaning his broad shoulders against the door-frame, stood thinking, or half asleep, it would have been difficult to guess which; while Papa began a slow, cat-like promenade up and down the room, paying no heed to Franz or his occupation, and thinking, beyond a doubt.

After a little, Franz, arousing himself with a yawn, staggered to the nearest chair, and dropped once more into a listless att.i.tude. In another moment, Mamma reentered the room.

As she pa.s.sed him, Franz laid a detaining hand upon her arm, and leering up into her face, whispered thickly:

"I say, old un, ye seem ter be troubled with gals. Don't ye want me to git rid o' _this_ one fer ye?"

A moment the old woman pauses, and looks down at her Prodigal in silence. Then she brings her hideous face close to his and whispers:

"My boy, that other un, ef we'd a-kept her, ud a-done us hurt. This un, ef we kin keep her, will make all our fortunes."

"Honor bright?" drawls Franz, looking up at her sleepily, and suppressing a yawn.

"Honor bright, my boy."

"Then," and he rises and stretches out his arms, "we'd better keep her."

Mamma favors him with a nod and a grin of approval, and then goes over to where Papa has halted and stands eyeing the whisperers.

The household belongings here are, as we have said, somewhat more respectable and extensive than those of the former nests occupied by these birds of pa.s.sage. There were several chairs; a quant.i.ty of crockery and cooking utensils; some decent curtains at the windows; and a couch, somewhat the worse for wear and not remarkable for cleanliness, in this room.

Toward this couch Franz moves with a shuffling gait, and flinging himself heavily down upon it, he settles himself to enjoy a quiet nap, paying no heed to Papa and Mamma, who, standing near together, are watching him furtively. It is some time before Franz becomes lost in dreamland. He fidgets and mumbles for so many minutes that Mamma becomes impatient. But he is quiet at last.

And then the two old plotters, withdrawing themselves to the remotest corner of the room, enter into a conversation or discussion, which, judging from their rapid gesticulations, their facial expression, and the occasional sharp hiss, which is all that could have been heard by the occupant of the couch were he ever so broad awake, must be a question of considerable importance, and one that admits of two opinions.

For more than an hour this warm discussion continues. Then it seems to have reached an amicable adjustment, for they both wear a look of relief, and conversation flags. Presently Mamma turns her face toward the couch.

"I wonder ef he is asleep," she whispers. "Somehow, that boy bothers me."

"There's nothin' ails him," replies the old man, in the same guarded whisper, "only what he come honestly by. He's lookin' out fer number one, same as we are; an' he won't trust _all_ his secrets to n.o.body's keepin', no more'n we won't. He's our own boy--only he's a leetle too sharp fer my likin'. Hows'ever, he's a lad to be proud of, an' it won't do to fall out with him."

"n.o.body wants to fall out with him," retorts Mamma. "He's going to be the makin' of us, only--mind this--he ain't to know too much, unless we want him to be our master. Look at the scamp, a-layin' there! I'm goin'

to see ef he is asleep."

She takes the candle from the table, snuffs the wick into a brighter blaze, and moves softly toward the couch. The Prodigal's face is turned upward. Mamma scans it closely, and then brings the candle very near to the closed eyes, waving it to and fro rapidly.

There is no slow awakening here. The two hands of the sleeper, which have rested in seeming carelessness loosely at his sides, move swiftly and simultaneously with his body. And Mamma's only consciousness is that of more meteors than could by any possibility emanate from one candle, and a sudden shock to her whole frame. She is sitting upon the floor, clutching wildly at the candle, while Franz, a dangerous-looking revolver in either hand, is glaring fiercely about him.

And all this in scarce ten seconds!

"Wot's up?" queries Franz shortly, "wot the d.i.c.kens--"