He dropped into a chair and
sat as if under a spell, listening to every word that was uttered. He
was powerless to move or to speak until the man who had told the cruel
story had passed by him in the dark and gone down the walk into the
street.
Then he arose and followed him; he did not know just why, but it
seemed as if he must see him, if only to beg him to declare that the
story he had just heard him tell was all a lie. And yet Ralph believed
that Rhyming Joe had told the truth. Why should he not believe him
when Sharpman himself had put such faith in the tale as to purchase
the man's silence with money. But if the story were true, if it _were_
true, then it should be known; Mrs. Burnham should know it, Mr.
Goodlaw should know it, Mr. Sharpman should not conceal it, Rhyming
Joe must not be allowed to depart until he had told it on the
witness-stand, in open court. He must see him, Ralph thought; he must
find him, he must, in some way, compel him to remain. The sound of the
man's footsteps had not yet died away as the boy ran after him along
the street, but half-way down the block his breath grew short, his
heart began to pound against his breast, he pressed his hand to his
side as if in pain, and staggered up to a lamp-post for support.
When he recovered sufficiently to start on, Rhyming Joe had passed
out of both sight and hearing. Ralph hurried down the street until he
reached Lackawanna Avenue, and there he stopped, wondering which way
to turn.
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