Also there was Hamby, the pacifist whom I did not
like, and a second I. W. W., brought by Colver--a lad named Philip,
who had recently been indicted by the grand jury, and was at this
moment a fugitive from justice with a price upon his head.
The door of the room was opened, and another man came in; a striking
figure, tall and gaunt, with old and pitifully untidy clothing, and
a half month's growth of beard upon his chin. He wore an old black
hat, frayed at the edges; but under this hat was a face of such
gentleness and sadness that it made you think of Carpenter's own.
Withal, it was a Yankee face--of that lean, stringy kind that we
know so well. The newcomer's eyes fell upon Carpenter, and his face
lighted; he set down an old carpet-bag that he was carrying, and
stretched out his two hands, and went to him. "Carpenter! I've been
looking for you!"
And Carpenter answered, "My brother!" And the two clasped hands, and
I thought to myself with astonishment, "How does Carpenter know this
man?"
Presently I whispered to Abell, "Who is he?" I learned that he was
one I had heard of in the papers--Bartholomew Howard, the
"millionaire hobo;" he was grandson and heir of one of our great
captains of industry, and had taken literally the advice of the
prophet, to sell all that he had and give it to the unemployed.
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