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All that remains now is to conclude the story of Tom Chist, and to tell of what came of him in the end. He did not go back again to live with old Matt Abrahamson. Parson Jones had now taken charge of him and his fortunes, and Tom did not have to go back to the fisherman's hut.
He narrated all the facts he had learned from Abrahamson and Roddy, and concluded with the story Withers had told him on the station platform. He held back none of the details. Evidently, his irritation toward Withers had subsided. When Bristow handed him the watch Maria Fulton had found, he said laughingly: "It's a good thing George told me about it, isn't it?
"Now," continued Abrahamson, expressing with one movement of his arm tolerant ridicule, "this man with the gold tooth and the brown beard he thought he was disguised. By gracious! it was funny. A fellow like me takes one look at him and sees the disguise. The gold tooth that was false, fake.
Yes he was different this last time." The detective, oblivious of the other for a moment, blew a cloud of smoke across the counter, causing the Jew to dodge and cough. "Let me see," Braceway said. "You saw him three months ago, two months ago, and three days ago. Had you ever seen him before?" Abrahamson laughed, and, reaching over, slapped Braceway on the shoulder gently. "You are so quick, Mr.
By that time Tom Chist had grown into a strong-limbed, thick-jointed boy of fourteen or fifteen years of age. It was a miserable dog's life he lived with old Matt Abrahamson, for the old fisherman was in his cups more than half the time, and when he was so there was hardly a day passed that he did not give Tom a curse or a buffet or, as like as not, an actual beating.
Morris scratched his head. He mentally passed in review Jacobson, Abrahamson, and every other Biblical proper name combined with the suffix "son," but rejected them all. "The lady what I want to see it is buyer for a department store in Duluth, what arrived here this morning," Morris explained. "Let me see," the clerk mused; "buyer, hey? What was she a buyer of?"
Greenleaf grinned, appreciating the lame man's intention to take the wind out of Braceway's sails by giving credit to Abrahamson for the information. "Yes, he told me that," Braceway answered, as if nettled by the interruption; and added: "Let me finish my statement, Bristow. You can discuss it all you please later on. But I'd prefer to get through with it now.
Soon afterward Matt Abrahamson came out of the cabin and he called to Tom to go get a bite to eat, for it was time for them to be away fishing. All that morning the recollection of the night before hung over Tom Chist like a great cloud of boding trouble. It filled the confined area of the little boat and spread over the entire wide spaces of sky and sea that surrounded them.
All that remains now is to conclude the story of Tom Chist, and to tell of what came of him in the end. He did not go back again to live with old Matt Abrahamson. Parson Jones had now taken charge of him and his fortunes, and Tom did not have to go back to the fisherman's hut.
I don't know; I can't tell whether I saw him in one of those places, or some other place, or here." Braceway urged him with his eyes. "If you only could! Mr. Abrahamson, if you could remember where you saw him when he wore the moustache, you would enable me to put my hands on him. You'd do more. You'd give me enough information to lead to the arrest of the murderer."
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