Mrs. Darnell, his newest mother, lived in Cleveland, Ohio.  But her adopted son did not long remain with her.  He was seen one afternoon by a policeman, new to that beat, deliberately toddling away from her house, and being questioned answered that he was “a doin’ home.”  He must have traveled by rail, somehow, for three days later he was in the town of Whiteville, which, as you know, is a long way from Blackburg.  His clothing was in pretty fair condition, but he was sinfully dirty.  Unable to give any account of himself he was arrested as a vagrant and sentenced to imprisonment in the Infants’ Sheltering Home—­where he was washed.

Jo ran away from the Infants’ Sheltering Home at Whiteville—­just took to the woods one day, and the Home knew him no more forever.

We find him next, or rather get back to him, standing forlorn in the cold autumn rain at a suburban street corner in Blackburg; and it seems right to explain now that the raindrops falling upon him there were really not dark and gummy; they only failed to make his face and hands less so.  Jo was indeed fearfully and wonderfully besmirched, as by the hand of an artist.  And the forlorn little tramp had no shoes; his feet were bare, red, and swollen, and when he walked he limped with both legs.  As to clothing—­ah, you would hardly have had the skill to name any single garment that he wore, or say by what magic he kept it upon him.  That he was cold all over and all through did not admit of a doubt; he knew it himself.  Anyone would have been cold there that evening; but, for that reason, no one else was there.  How Jo came to be there himself, he could not for the flickering little life of him have told, even if gifted with a vocabulary exceeding a hundred words.  From the way he stared about him one could have seen that he had not the faintest notion of where (nor why) he was.

Yet he was not altogether a fool in his day and generation; being cold and hungry, and still able to walk a little by bending his knees very much indeed and putting his feet down toes first, he decided to enter one of the houses which flanked the street at long intervals and looked so bright and warm.  But when he attempted to act upon that very sensible decision a burly dog came bowsing out and disputed his right.  Inexpressibly frightened and believing, no doubt (with some reason, too) that brutes without meant brutality within, he hobbled away from all the houses, and with gray, wet fields to right of him and gray, wet fields to left of him—­with the rain half blinding him and the night coming in mist and darkness, held his way along the road that leads to Greenton.  That is to say, the road leads those to Greenton who succeed in passing the Oak Hill Cemetery.  A considerable number every year do not.

Jo did not.