“Now, boy, this one,” said the stranger, poking a mule; “but be careful.  Be careful to wait for the highest bid.”

The stranger’s warning came just in time.  No sooner had Lewis called the mule for sale than bids rained on him from every side.  One after the other, in rapid succession, the animals were sold; but no more went for a penny.

His pockets stuffed with notes and silver, the stranger pushed his way through the crowd, suddenly grown silent.  On the way to the river he paid off his men.  He climbed into the canoe, and Lewis followed.  The boatmen shoved off.

The wag, leading Lewis’s pony, had followed them to the river-bank.

“Show me thy hoof, partner,” he shouted, laughing, to the stranger.  “Thou shouldst deal in souls, not in horses.  I would I had shaken thy hand.  God go with thee!”

The stranger calmly counted his money.

“Boy,” he said, “I have just given you a five-year life in five minutes.  Write this down in your mind.  In high finance he who knows figures starves on two dollars a day; success comes to him who knows men.”

During the long hours in the dirty train that jerked them toward the coat and civilization the stranger began to grow nervous.  Lewis looked up more than once to find himself the object of a troubled gaze.  They were the only passengers.  There were moments when the road-bed permitted snatches of conversation, but it was during a long stop on a side-track that the stranger unburdened himself.

“Boy,” he said, “the time is coming when I must tell you my name.”

“I know your name,” said Lewis.

“What!” cried the stranger.

“I know your name,” repeated Lewis; “it is Leighton.”

“How?  How do you know?” The stranger was frowning.

“No,” said Lewis, quietly; “I haven’t been looking through your things.  One day my—­my foster-father and my foster-mother were talking.  They did not know I was near.  I didn’t realize they were talking about me until mammy spoke up.  Mammy is—­well, you know, she’s just a mammy——­”

“Yes,” said the stranger.  “What did mammy say?”

“She said,” continued Lewis, coloring slightly, “that a Leighton didn’t have to have his name written in a family Bible because God never forgets to write it in his face.”

“Good for mammy!” said the stranger.  “So that’s what they were talking about.”  For a moment he sat silent and thoughtful; then he said:  “Boy, don’t you worry about any family Bible business.  Your name’s written in the family Bible all right.  Take it from me; I know.  I’m Glendenning Leighton—­your father.”  His eyes glistened.

“I’m glad about the name,” said Lewis, his face alight.  “I’m glad you’re my dad, too.  But I knew that.”

“Knew it?  How did you know it?”

“The old woman—­Old Immortality.  Don’t you remember?  She said, ’The son is the spit of the father.’”