Without difficulty he found the captain of the Creole.  “I don’t know very much about the poor fellow,” he said.  “I run across him nearly six months ago fit a little place called Dura, on the coast of Costa Rica.  He was working about a sort of hotel, scrubbing and taking care of the horses; and I guess I shouldn’t have paid any attention to him if I hadn’t heard somebody say that he was an American; and it struck me as rather out of place that an American should be scrubbing round for those fellows, and I began to inquire about him.  The landlord said that he was brought there sick, a good while ago, and was left for dead, but just as they were about to bury him he came to, and got up again after a few weeks.  A priest told me that his name was Henry DeGolyer, and I said that it didn’t make any difference what his name might be, I was going to take him back to the United States, so that if he had to clean out stables and scrub he might do it for white folks at least; for I am a down-east Yankee, and I haven’t any too much respect for those fellows.  Well, I brought him to New Orleans.  I couldn’t do much for him, being a poor man myself, but I got him a place in a restaurant, where he could get enough to eat, anyhow.  I’ve since heard that he used to be a newspaper man, but this was disputed.  Some people said that the newspaper DeGolyer was a black-haired fellow.  But that didn’t make any difference—­I did the best I could.”

“And you shall he more than paid for your trouble,” said DeGolyer.

“Well, we won’t argue about that.  If you’ve got any money to spare you’d better give it to him.”

“What is your name?”

“Atkins—­just Cap’n Atkins.”

“Where do you get your mail?”

“Well, I don’t get any to speak of.  A letter sent in care of the wharfmaster will reach me all right.”

DeGolyer got into a hack and was rapidly driven to the restaurant.  Young Witherspoon had completed his work and was in the kitchen, sitting on a box with a dirty-looking bundle lying beside him.

“Come, Henry,” DeGolyer said, taking his arm.

“No; not Henry—­Hank.  Henry’s dead.”

“Come, my boy.”

Witherspoon looked up, and closing his eyes, pressed the tips of his fingers against them.

“My boy.”

“He got up and turned to go with DeGolyer, who held his arm, but perceiving that he had left his bundle, pulled back and made an effort to reach it.

“No, we don’t want that,” said DeGolyer.

“Yes, clothes.”

“No, we’ll get better clothes.  Come on.”

DeGolyer took him to a Turkish bath, to a barbershop, and then to a clothing store.  It was now evening and nearly time to take the train for Chicago.  They drove to the hotel and then to the railway station.