and I dare say some of them big doctors, like Morell McKenzie, would be glad to give a thousand or two to get holt on a case like this.'
'Done,' cried Mitchell, the goat of the shed. 'I'll go halves!―or stay, let's form a syndicate and work the Mystery.'
Some of the rouseabouts laughed, but the joke fell as flat with Tom as any other joke.
"The worst of it is,' said the Mystery himself, in the whine that was natural to him, and with a timid side look up at Tom―'the worst of it is I might be a lord or a duke, and don't know anything about it. I might be a rich man, with a lot of houses and money. I might be a lord.'
The chaps guffawed.
'Wot'yer laughing at?' asked Mitchell. 'I don't see anything unreasonable about it; he might be a lord as far as looks go. I've seen two.'
'Yes,' reflected Tom, ignoring Mitchell, 'there's something in that; but then again, you see, you might be Jack the Ripper. Better let it slide, mate; let the dead past bury its dead. Start fresh with a clean sheet.'
'But I don't even know my name, or whether I'm married or not,' whined the outcast. 'I might have a good wife and little ones.'
'Better keep on forgetting, mate,' Mitchell said, 'and as for a name, that's nothing. I don't know mine, and I've had eight. There's plenty good names knocking round. I knew a man named Jim Smith that died. Take his name, it just suits you, and he ain't likely to call round for it; if he does you can say you was born with it.'
