agitated to do so. Dave's heart was beating like a trip-hammer and for the time being his surroundings were completely forgotten.
"Are you—are you" he began. "Are you David Porter?" he blurted out.
"Yes," was the gasped-out reply. "Yo—you"
"And you don't know me! Oh, father!"
"Eh? What's that?" asked the man, rising up slightly.
"You don't know me? But of course you don't—if you didn't get the letters and telegrams. I am your son, Dave Porter."
"My son? Wha—what do you mean? I—er—I have no son. I had one, years and years ago, but" Mr. Porter was too weak to go on. He sat staring at Dave in bewilderment.
"You lost him, I know. He was stolen from you. Well, I am that son. I have been looking for you for months. I found Uncle Dunston first, and then we sent letters and cablegrams to you, but no answer came back. Then I started out to hunt you up—and here I am." Dave was on his knees and holding his father's blood-stained hand in his own. "I see you are hurt; I'll"
"My son? My son?" queried Mr. Porter, like one in a dream. "Can this be true?" He gazed unsteadily at Dave. Then he closed his eyes and went off into a dead faint.
