"How long have you been out?" he asked, seating himself on the steps
of the kitchen and holding the revolver between his knees. The sun was
driving the morning mist away, and he had forgotten the cold.
"I got out yesterday," said the man.
Van Bibber glanced at the bags and lifted the revolver. "You didn't
waste much time," he said.
"No," answered the man, sullenly, "no, I didn't. I knew this place and
I wanted money to get West to my folks, and the Society said I'd have
to wait until I earned it, and I couldn't wait. I haven't seen my wife
for seven years, nor my daughter. Seven years, young man; think of
that--seven years. Do you know how long that is? Seven years without
seeing your wife or your child! And they're straight people, they
are," he added, hastily. "My wife moved West after I was put away and
took another name, and my girl never knew nothing about me. She thinks
I'm away at sea. I was to join 'em. That was the plan. I was to join
'em, and I thought I could lift enough here to get the fare, and now,"
he added, dropping his face in his hands, "I've got to go back. And I
had meant to live straight after I got West,--God help me, but I did!
Not that it makes much difference now.
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