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Stratton-Porter, Gene, 1863-1924

"Freckles"

None of us has understood.
I'll hire the finest detective in Chicago, and we'll go to work
together. This is nothing compared with things people do find out. We'll
go at it, beak and claw, and we'll show you a thing or two."
Freckles caught her sleeve.
"Me mother, Angel! Me mother!" he marveled hoarsely. "Did you say
you could be finding out today if me mother loved me? How? Oh, Angel!
Nothing matters, IF ONLY ME MOTHER DIDN'T DO IT!"
"Then you rest easy," said the Angel, with large confidence. "Your
mother didn't do it! Mothers of sons such as you don't do things like
that. I'll go to work at once and prove it to you. The first thing to
do is to go to that Home where you were and get the clothes you wore the
night you were left there. I know that they are required to save those
things carefully. We can find out almost all there is to know about your
mother from them. Did you ever see them?"
"Yis," he replied.
"Freckles! Were they white?" she cried.
"Maybe they were once. They're all yellow with laying, and brown with
blood-stains now" said Freckles, the old note of bitterness creeping in.


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