“‘Nay, this hand o’ mine hath opened thy door an’ blacked thy boots for thee often,’ said I.  ‘Dost thou not remember?’

“‘Dimly—­it was a long time ago,’ he answered.

“We said more, sor, but that is no part o’ the story.  Very well!  I went with him to his lodgings,—­a little cold room in a garret,—­an’ there alone with me he gave account of himself.  He had shovelled, an’ dug, an’ lifted, an’ run errands until his strength was low an’ the weight of his hand a burden.  What hope for him—­what way to earn a living!

“‘Have courage, man,’ I said to him.  ’Thou shalt learn to mend clocks.  It’s light an’ decent work, an’ one may live by it an’ see much o’ the world.’

“There was an old clock, sor, in a heap o’ rubbish that lay in a corner.  I took it apart, and soon he saw the office of each wheel an’ pinion an’ the infirmity that stopped them an’ the surgery to make them sound.  I tarried long in the great city, an’ every evening we were together in the little room.  I bought him a kit o’ tools an’ some brass, an’ we would shatter the clockworks an’ build them up again until he had skill, sor, to make or mend.

“‘Me good friend,’ said he, one evening after we had been a long time at work, ’I wish thou could’st teach me how to mend a broken life.  For God’s sake, help me!  I am fainting under a great burden.’

“‘What can I do?’ said I to him.

“Then, sor, he went over his story with me from beginning to end.  It was an impressive, a sacred confidence.  Ah, boy, it would be dishonour to tell thee his name, but his story, that I may tell thee, changing the detail, so it may never add a straw to his burden.  I shall quote him in substance only, an’ follow the long habit o’ me own tongue.

“‘Well, ye remember how me son was taken,’ said he.  ’I could not raise the ransom, try as I would.  Now, large sums were in me keeping an’ I fell.  I remember that day.  Ah! man, the devil seemed to whisper to me.  But, God forgive! it was for love that I fell.  Little by little I began to take the money I must have an’ cover its absence.  I said to meself, some time I’ll pay it back—­that ancient sophistry o’ the devil.  When me thieving had gone far, an’ near its goal, the bank burned.  As God’s me witness I’d no hand in that.  I weighed the chances an’ expected to go to prison—­well, say for ten years, at least.  I must suffer in order to save the boy, an’ was ready for the sacrifice.  Free again, I would help him to return the money.  That burning o’ the records shut off the prison, but opened the fire o’ hell upon me.  Half a year had gone by, an’ not a word from the kidnappers.  I took a note to the place appointed,—­a hollow log in the woods, a bit east of a certain bridge on the public highway twenty miles out o’ the city,—­but no answer,—­not a word,—­not a line up to this moment.  They must have relinquished hope an’ put the boy to death.