Tell me your name."
"I haven't any name," replied the boy.
"I don't understand," said McLean.
"I was thinking from the voice and the face of you that you wouldn't,"
said Freckles slowly. "I've spent more time on it than I ever did on
anything else in all me life, and I don't understand. Does it seem to
you that anyone would take a newborn baby and row over it, until it was
bruised black, cut off its hand, and leave it out in a bitter night
on the steps of a charity home, to the care of strangers? That's what
somebody did to me."
McLean stared aghast. He had no reply ready, and presently in a low
voice he suggested: "And after?"
"The Home people took me in, and I was there the full legal age and
several years over. For the most part we were a lot of little Irishmen
together. They could always find homes for the other children, but
nobody would ever be wanting me on account of me arm."
"Were they kind to you?" McLean regretted the question the minute it was
asked.
"I don't know," answered Freckles. The reply sounded so hopeless, even
to his own ears, that he hastened to qualify it by adding: "You see,
it's like this, sir.
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