“That boy w’ats a-talkin’ to Jimmy Dooley, you mean?”

“Yes, the one there by the lion’s cage.”

“You mean that boy there with the blue patch on his pants?”

“Yes, yes! the one with his hand bandaged; don’t you see?”

“Oh, that’s Ralph.”

“Ralph who?”

“Ralph nobody.  He ain’t got no other name.  He lives with Bachelor Billy.”

“Is—­is Bachelor Billy his father?”

“Naw; he ain’t got no father.”

“Does he work with you in the mines?”

“In the mines? naw; we don’t work in the mines; we work in the screen-room up t’ the breaker, a-pickin’ slate.  He sets nex’ to me.”

“How long has he been working there?”

“Oh, I donno; couple o’ years, I guess.  You want to see ’im?  I’ll go call ’im.”

“No; I don’t care to see him.  Don’t call him; he isn’t the boy I’m looking for, any way.”

“There! he’s a-turnin’ this way now.  I’ll have ’im here in a minute; hey, Ralph!  Ralph! here he comes.”

But the old man was gone.  He had disappeared suddenly and mysteriously.  A little later he was trudging slowly along the dusty road, through the crowds of people, up toward the city.  He was smiling, and muttering to himself.  “Found him at last!” he exclaimed, in a whisper, “found him at last!  It’ll be all right now; only be cautious, Simon! be cautious!”

CHAPTER II.

A strange visitor.

It was the day after the circus.  Robert Burnham sat in his office on Lackawanna Avenue, busy with his afternoon mail.  As he laid the last letter aside the incidents of the previous day recurred to him, and he saw again, in imagination, the long line of breaker-boys, with happy, dusty faces, filing slowly by him, grateful for his gifts, eager for the joys to come.  The pleasure he had found in his generous deed stayed with him, as such pleasures always do, and was manifest even now in the light of his kindly face.

He had pondered, too, upon the strange story of the boy Ralph.  It had awakened his interest and aroused his sympathy.  He had spoken to his wife about the lad when he went home at night; and he had taken his little daughter on his knee and told to her the story of the boy who worked all day in the breaker, who had no father and no mother, and whose name was—­Ralph!  Both wife and daughter had listened eagerly to the tale, and had made him promise to look carefully to the lad and help him to some better occupation than the drudgery of the screen-room.

But he had already resolved to do this, and more.  The mystery surrounding the child’s life should be unravelled.  Obscure and humble though his origin might be, he should, at least, bear the name to which his parentage entitled him.  The more he thought on this subject, the wider grew his intentions concerning the child.  His fatherly nature was aroused and eager for action.