“Never mind.  I’m all right.”

There were no customers in the room.  The scrub-man came nearer.  Shudder after shudder, seeming to come in waves, passed over Henry, but suddenly he became calm, and slowly he walked toward the rear end of the room.  The scrub-man moved forward and was at Henry’s feet.  He reached down and took hold of the man’s arm—­took the rag out of his hand.  The man looked up.  There could be no mistake.  He was Henry Witherspoon.

“Don’t you know me?” DeGolyer asked.

The man snatched the rag and began again to scrub the floor.

DeGolyer took hold of his arm.  “Get up,” he commanded, and the man obeyed as if frightened.

“Don’t you know me?”

“No.”

“Don’t you remember Hank?”

“I’m Hank,” the man answered.

“No,” said DeGolyer, with a sob, “you are Henry, and I am Hank.”

“No, Henry’s dead—­I’m Hank.”  He dropped on his knees again and began to scrub the floor.

Just then the proprietor came in.  “What’s the trouble?” he asked.  “Why, mister, don’t pay any attention to that poor fellow.  There’s no harm in him.”

“No one knows that better than I,” DeGolyer answered.  “How long has he been here—­where did he come from?”

“He came off a ship.  The cap’n said that he couldn’t use him and asked me to take him.  Been here about five months, I think.  They say he used to amount to something, but he’s gone up here,” he added, tapping his head.

“What’s the captain’s name—­where can I find him?”

“His ship’s in now, I think.  Go down to the levee and ask for the cap’n of the Creole.”

“I will, but first let me tell you that I have come for this man.  I know his father.  I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“All right.  And if you can do anything for this poor fellow you are welcome to, for he’s not much use round here.”

DeGolyer snatched his hat and rushed out into the street.  Not a hack was in sight; he could not wait for a car, and he hastened toward the river.  He began to run, and a boy cried:  “Sick him, Tige.”  He stopped suddenly and put his hand to his head.  “Have I lost my mind?” he asked himself.

“Well, here we are again,” some one said.  DeGolyer looked round and recognized the railroad man who had charge of the excursion.

“I’m glad I met you,” DeGolyer replied.  “It saves hunting you up.”

“Why, what’s the matter?  Are you sick?”

“No, I’m all right, but something has occurred that compels me to return at once to Chicago.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No, but it demands my immediate return.  I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped.  Good-by.”

Again he started toward the river.  He upset an old woman’s basket of fruit.  She cried out at him, and be saw that she could scarcely totter after the rolling oranges.  He halted and picked them up for her.  She mumbled something; she appeared to be a hundred years old.  As he was putting the fruit into the basket, she struck a note in her mumbling that caused him to look her full in the face.  He dropped the oranges and sprang back.  She was the hag that had taken him from the Foundlings’ Home.  He hurried onward.  “Great God!” he inwardly cried, “I am covered with the slime of the past.”