The old man did not present an unfavorable appearance, as he sat, leaning on his cane, dressed in his new black suit, waiting for the examination to begin.  He looked across the bar into the faces of the people with the utmost calmness.  He was perfectly at his ease.  He knew that what he was about to tell was absolutely true in all material respects, and this fact inspired him with confidence in his ability to tell it effectually.  It relieved him, also, of the necessity for that constant evasion and watchfulness which had characterized his efforts as a witness in other cases.

The formal questions relating to his residence, age, occupation, etc., were answered with alacrity.

Then Sharpman, pointing to Ralph, asked the witness:—­

“Do you know this boy?”

“I do,” answered Craft, unhesitatingly.

“What is his name?”

“Ralph Burnham.”

“When did you first see him?”

“On the night of May 13, 1859.”

“Under what circumstances?”

This question, as by previous arrangement between attorney and witness, opened up the way for a narration of facts, and old Simon, clearing his throat, leaned across the railing of the witness-box and began.

He related in detail, and with much dramatic effect, the scenes at the accident, his rescue of the boy, his effort at the time to find some one to whom he belonged, and the ride into the city afterward.  He corroborated conductor Merrick’s story of the meeting on the train which carried the rescued passengers, and related the conversation which passed between them, as nearly as he could remember it.

He told of his attempts to find the child’s friends during the few days that followed, then of the long and desperate illness from which he suffered as a result of his exertion and exposure on the night of the accident.  From that point, he went on with an account of his continued care for the child, of his incessant search for clews to the lad’s identity, of his final success, of Ralph’s unaccountable disappearance, and of his own regret and disappointment thereat.

He said that the lad had grown into his affections to so great an extent, and his sympathy for the child’s parents was such, that he could not let him go in that way, and so he started out to find him.

He told how he traced him from one point to another, until he was taken up by the circus wagon, how the scent was then lost, and how the boy’s whereabouts remained a mystery to him, until the happy discovery at the tent in Scranton.

“Well,” said Sharpman, “when you had found the boy, what did you do?”

“I went, the very next day,” was the reply, “to Robert Burnham to tell him that his son was living.”

“What conversation did you have with him?”

“I object,” interposed Goodlaw, “to evidence of any alleged conversation between this witness and Robert Burnham.  Counsel should know better than to ask for it.”