Chapter III. An Unholy Compact. "Who is that man, Curtis?" asked John Linden, pointing his thin finger at Tim Bolton, who looked strangely out of place, as, with clay pipe, he sat in the luxurious library on a sumptuous chair. "That man?" stammered Curtis, quite at a loss what to say. "Yes." "He is a poor man out of luck, who has applied to me for assistance," answered Curtis, recovering his wits. "That's it, governor," said Bolton, thinking it necessary to confirm the statement. "I've got five small children at home almost starvin', your honor." "That is sad. What is your business, my man?" It was Bolton's turn to be embarrassed. "My business?" he repeated. "That is what I said." "I'm a blacksmith, but I'm willing to do any honest work." "That is commendable; but don't you know that it is very ill-bred to smoke a pipe in a gentleman's house?" "Excuse me, governor!" And Bolton extinguished his pipe, and put it away in a pocket of his corduroy coat. "I was just telling him the same thing," said Curtis. "Don't trouble yourself any further, uncle. I will inquire into the man's circumstances, and help him if I can." "Very well, Curtis. I came down because I thought I heard voices." John Linden slowly returned to his chamber, and left the two alone. "The governor's getting old," said Bolton. "When I was butler here, fifteen years ago, he looked like a young man. He didn't suspect that he had ever seen me before." "Nor that you had carried away his son, Bolton."