"I came out of curiosity," he muttered.
Dick laughed--a laugh that was not good to hear. "I can easily satisfy
you," he said; "permit me to tell you a little story."
"The story begins in a little manufacturing town a few miles from
Liverpool, England, just three years ago today." Beneath the unwavering
eyes of the man leaning on the table Whitley's face grew ghastly and
he writhed in his chair.
"An old man and his wife, with their two orphaned grand-sons, lived
in a little cottage on the outskirts of the town. The older of the
boys was a strong man of twenty; the other a sickly lad of eight. The
old people earned a slender income by cultivating small fruits. This
was helped out by the wages of the older brother, who was a machinist
in one of the big factories. They were a quiet and unpretentious little
family, devout Christians, and very much attached to each other.
"One afternoon a wealthy American, who was stopping at a large resort
a few miles from the village, went for a drive along the road leading
past their home. As his carriage was passing, the little boy, who was
playing just outside the yard, unintentionally frightened the horses
and they shied quickly. At the same moment, the American's silk hat
fell in the dust. The driver stopped the team and the lad, frightened,
picked up the hat and ran with it toward the carriage, stammering an
apology for what he had done.
"Instead of accepting the boy's excuse, the man, beside himself with
anger, and slightly under the influence of wine, sprang from the
carriage, and seizing the lad, kicked him brutally.
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