As the evening wore on I wondered if I would be able to sleep.  There was no use worrying about matters, as it would do no good, so I was inclined to treat the affair philosophically and make the best of it.

An hour passed, and I was just dropping into a light doze when a noise outside attracted my attention.  I listened intently and heard a man’s footsteps.

I was inclined to call out, and, in fact, was on the point of so doing, when the door of the tool house opened and in the dim light I recognized the form of the tramp moulder who earlier in the day had so impudently asked me for help.

I was not greatly surprised to see him, for, as mentioned before, the old tool house was frequently used by men of his stamp.  He had as much right there as I had, and though I was chagrined to see him enter I was in no position to protest.

On the contrary, I deemed it advisable to keep quiet.  If he did not see me, so much the better.  If he did, who could tell what indignities he might visit upon me?

So I crouched down behind the empty barrels, hardly daring to breathe.  The man stumbled into the building, leaving the door wide open.

By his manner I was certain that he had been drinking heavily, and his rambling soliloquy proved it.

“The same old shebang,” he mumbled to himself, as he swayed around in the middle of the floor, “the same old shebang where Aaron Woodward and I parted company four years ago.  He’s took care of his money, and I’ve gone to the dogs,” and he gave a yawn and sat down on top of a barrel.

I was thoroughly surprised at his words.  Was it possible that this seedy-looking individual had once been intimate with Duncan Woodward’s father?  It hardly seemed reasonable.  I made a rapid calculation and concluded that the meeting must have had something to do with the proposed railroad in which I knew Mr. Woodward had held an interest.  Perhaps this tramp had once been a prosperous contractor.

“Great times them were.  Plenty of money and nothing to do,” continued the man.  “Wonder if any one in Darbyville would recognize—­ hold up, Stumpy, you mustn’t repeat that name too often or you’ll be mentioning it in public when it ain’t no interest for you to do it.  Stumpy, John Stumpy, is good enough for the likes of you.”

And with great deliberation Mr. John Stumpy brought forth a short clay pipe which he proceeded to fill and light with evident satisfaction.

During the brief period of lighting up I caught a good glance at his face, and fancied that I saw beneath the surface of dirt and dissipation a look of shrewdness and intelligence.  Evidently he was one of the unfortunates who allowed drink to make off with their brains.

Mr. John Stumpy puffed on in silence for several minutes.  I wondered what he intended to do, and was not prepared for the surprises that were to follow.

“Times are changed and no mistake,” he went on.  “Here I am, down at the bottom, Nick Weaver dead, Woodward a rich man, and Carson Strong in jail.  Humph! but times do change!”