“Stand up out here in the light,” said Ranse, looking at him closely.
Curly got up sullenly and took a step or two.
His face, now shaven smooth, seemed transformed. His hair had been combed, and it fell back from the right side of his forehead with a peculiar wave. The moonlight charitably softened the ravages of drink; and his aquiline, well-shaped nose and small, square cleft chin almost gave distinction to his looks.
Ranse sat on the foot of the cot and looked at him curiously.
“Where did you come from—have you got any home or folks anywhere?”
“Me? Why, I’m a dook,” said Curly. “I’m Sir Reginald—oh, cheese it. No; I don’t know anything about my ancestors. I’ve been a tramp ever since I can remember. Say, old pal, are you going to set ’em up again to-night or not?”
“You answer my questions and maybe I will. How did you come to be a tramp?”
“Me?” answered Curly. “Why, I adopted that profession when I was an infant. Case of had to. First thing I can remember, I belonged to a big, lazy hobo called Beefsteak Charley. He sent me around to houses to beg. I wasn’t hardly big enough to reach the latch of a gate.”
“Did he ever tell you how he got you?” asked Ranse.
“Once when he was sober he said he bought me for
