“I haven’t eaten anything for twenty-four hours,” continued the tramp, as he may properly be called.  “It’s a hard world to such as me, boy.”

“I should judge so from your looks,” answered Carl.

“Indeed you are right.  I was born to ill luck.”

Carl had some doubts about this.  Those who represent themselves as born to ill luck can usually trace the ill luck to errors or shortcomings of their own.  There are doubtless inequalities of fortune, but not as great as many like to represent.  Of two boys who start alike one may succeed, and the other fail, but in nine cases out of ten the success or failure may be traced to a difference in the qualities of the boys.

“Here is a quarter if that will do you any good,” said Carl.

The man clutched at it with avidity.

“Thank you.  This will buy me a cup of coffee and a plate of meat, and will put new life into me.”

He was about to hurry away, but Carl felt like questioning him further.  The extraordinary resemblance between this man and his stepbrother led him to think it possible that there might be a relationship between them.  Of his stepmother’s family he knew little or nothing.  His father had married her on short acquaintance, and she was very reticent about her former life.  His father was indolent, and had not troubled himself to make inquiries.  He took her on her own representation as the widow of a merchant who had failed in business.

On the impulse of the moment—­an impulse which he could not explain—­Carl asked abruptly—­“Is your name Cook?”

A look of surprise, almost of stupefaction, appeared on the man’s face.

“Who told you my name?” he asked.

“Then your name is Cook?”

“What is your object in asking?” said the man, suspiciously.

“I mean you no harm,” returned Carl, “but I have reasons for asking.”

“Did you ever see me before?” asked the man.

“No.”

“Then what makes you think my name is Cook?  It is not written on my face, is it?”

“No.”

“Then how——­”

Carl interrupted him.

“I know a boy named Peter Cook,” he said, “who resembles you very strongly.”

“You know Peter Cook—­little Peter?” exclaimed the tramp.

“Yes.  Is he a relation of yours?”

“I should think so!” responded Cook, emphatically.  “He is my own son—­that is, if he is a boy of about your age.”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?  Is his mother alive?”

“Your wife!” exclaimed Carl, overwhelmed at the thought.

“She was my wife!” said Cook, “but while I was in California, some years since, she took possession of my small property, procured a divorce through an unprincipled lawyer, and I returned to find myself without wife, child or money.  Wasn’t that a mean trick?”

“I think it was.”

“Can you tell me where she is?” asked Cook, eagerly.