t him take his time. I
figures out from his looks, and his showin' up in a runabout, that he's
come from some of them big country places near by, and that when he
gets ready he'll let out what he's after. Sure enough, pretty soon he
opens up.

"Wouldn't you like to buy the machine, sir?" says he.

"Selling out, are you?" says I. "Well, what's your askin' price for a
rig of that kind?"

He sizes me up for a minute, and then sends out a feeler. "Would five
dollars be too much?"

"No," says I, "I shouldn't call that a squeeze, providin' you threw in
the dog."

He looks real worried then, and hugs the terrier up closer than ever.
"I couldn't sell Togo," says he. "You--you wouldn't want him too,
would you?"

When I sees that it wouldn't take much more to get them big blue eyes
of his to leakin', I puts him easy on the dog question. "But what's
your idea of sellin' the bubble?" says I.

"Why," says he, "I won't need it any longer. I'm going to be a
motorman on a trolley car."

"That's a real swell job," says I. "But how will the folks at home
take it?"

"The folks at home?" says he, lookin' me straight in the eye. "Why,
there aren't any. I haven't any home, you know."

Honest, the way he passed out that whopper was worth watchin'. It was
done as cool and scientific as a real estate man takin' oath there
wa'n't a mosquito in the whole county.

"Then you're just travelin' around loose, eh?" says I. "Where'd you
strike from to-day?"

"Chicago," says he.

"Do tell!" says I. "That's quite a day's run. You must have left
before breakfast."

"I had breakfast early," says he.

"Dinner in Buffalo?" says I.

"I didn't stop for dinner," says he.

"In that case--er--what's the name?" says I.

"Mister Smith," says he.

"Easy name to remember," says I.

"Ye-e-es. I'd rather you called me Gerald, though," says he.

"Good," says I. "Well, Gerald, seein' as you've made a long jump since
breakfast, what do you say to grubbin' up a little with me, eh?"

That strikes him favourable, and as Mother Whaley is just bringin' in
the platter, we goes inside and sits down, Togo and all. He sure
didn't fall to like a half starved kid; but maybe that was because he
was so busy lookin' at Mrs. Whaley. She ain't much on the French maid
type, that's a fact. Her uniform is a checked apron over a faded red
wrapper, and she has a way of puggin' her hair up in a little knob that
makes her face look like one of t