Now as from force of long habit he
peered out of the doorway before making his exit; he looked like one of
the John Sargent's prophets gone a little madder than usual--a Jeremiah
or a Habakkuk.
"Hello, Doc!" called Murtha in hearty, friendly tones. "Hie spy! Come on
out!"
"Oh, how d'ye do, captain!" responded Doc. "How are you? I was just
interviewing my solicitor."
"Sorry," said Murtha. "The inspector wants to see you."
Doc flinched.
"But they've just let me go!" he protested faintly.
"It's one of those old indictments--Chicago Water Front or something.
Anyhow--Here! Hold on to yourself!"
He threw his arms around the old man, who seemed on the point of
falling.
"Oh, captain! That's all over! I served time for that out in Illinois!"
For some strange reason all the insanity had gone out of his bearing.
"Not in this state," answered Murtha. New pity for this poor old wastrel
took hold upon him. "What were you going to do?"
"I was going to retire, captain," said Doc faintly. "My daughter's
husband--he owned a farm up in Cayuga County--well, he died and I was
planning to go up there and live with her."
"And sting all the boobs?" grinned Murtha not unsympathetically. "How
much money have you got?"
"Seventy-five cents."
"How much is the ticket?"
"About nine dollars," quavered Doc. "But I know a man down on Chatham
Square who might buy a block of stock in the Last Chance Gold Mining
Company; I could get the money that way.
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