"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.
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