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Updated: May 26, 2025
Inside, a clerk sat, busily writing. "Mr. Sharpman has not come down yet," he said, in answer to Craft's question. "Take a chair; he'll be here in twenty minutes." The old man seated himself, and the clerk resumed his writing. In less than half an hour Sharpman came in.
His own footsteps had a musical sound in his ears, as he hurried along, impatient to reach Bachelor Billy, and to tell to him the wonderful news, news so wonderful that he could scarcely realize or comprehend it. Mr. Sharpman said he would be going back home to-night with a heart as light as a feather. And so he was, was he not? He asked his heart the question, but, somehow, it would not say yes.
Visions of golden thousands were already floating before his greedy eyes. "We shall not begin at all, just yet," said Sharpman. "We'll wait till the horror and excitement, consequent upon this disaster, have passed away. It wouldn't do to proceed now; besides, all action should be postponed, at any rate, until an inventory of the estate shall have been filed."
"Yes," said the door-keeper, in answer to Ralph's question, "there'll be another train going up at eleven thirty-five." "Do you know Mr. Sharpman?" asked the boy, timidly. "Mr. who?" "Mr. Sharpman, the lawyer from Scranton." "No, I don't know him, why?" "Oh, I didn't know but you might know w'ether he'd gone home or not; but, of course, if you don't know 'im you couldn't tell."
"Well, Uncle Billy, I got lost in Wilkesbarre; I wasn't used to it, an' I went into a saloon there, an' they got all my money, an' I got onto the train 'ithout a ticket, an' the conductor put me off, an' I had to walk the rest o' the way home; an' I'm pirty tired, an' dirty, an' 'shamed." Sharpman laughed aloud.
He dressed himself in his best clothes, brushed them carefully, put a little money in his pocket, and, long before the appointed hour, he was at the station, waiting for Sharpman. The lawyer did not come until it was nearly time for the train to start. He greeted Ralph very pleasantly, and they took a seat together in the car.
For a moment Sharpman sat quietly staring at his visitor; then, in a voice which betrayed his effort to remain calm, he said: "What right have you to make such a statement as this? How can you prove it?" "Well, in the first place I knew the boy's father, and he was not Robert Burnham, I assure you." "Who was he?" "Simon Craft's son." "Then Ralph is ?" "Old Simon's grandchild."
He was enjoying the lawyer's diplomacy with Ralph, exceedingly. The lad was again in the depths of anxiety. He looked from one to the other of the men with appealing eyes. "Ain't they some way to fix it, Mr. Sharpman?" he said. "Can't you do sumpthin' for me?" "Oh! I couldn't be your guardian, my boy, the law wouldn't allow that; and Mr. Craft, here, hasn't money enough.
It ain't much, but mayhap it'll buy a bit o' schoolin' for the lad some day. Ye s'ould see the braw way he'll read an' write now, sir." Sharpman sat for some time as if in deep thought. Finally, he said: "Look here, Buckley! You're a poor man; you can't afford to throw away what little money you earn, nor to let an opportunity slip for turning an honest penny.
So Old Simon had a very grandfatherly air as he took his seat by the side of his counsel and laid his cane on the floor beside him. After arranging his papers on the table, Sharpman arose and looked back over the crowded court-room. Finally, catching sight of Ralph, he motioned to him to come inside the bar. The boy obeyed, but not without embarrassment.
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