"Dis is der bulliest ol' time dat ever I had," said he. "I didn't know
dere was places like dis 'tall, 'cept Cintral Park. Yer can run aroun'
here all yer like, can't yer, Mister? Nobuddy'll stop yer?"

"Not if you ran a thousand miles, Ches. This is the free land, boy. You
can do what you like." Jim spoke with warmth, for, although he felt that
the child could not understand, yet the love of the country swelled in
him so hot that he could never speak of it carelessly.

"Dat's prutty damn good," responded Ches.

"It is," replied Jim. "Now, Ches, will you do something to oblige me?"

"Sure!"

"Well, then, don't swear. I don't like to hear boys swear."

"I won't cuss another cuss, if I kin help it. Dey'll come out too quick
for me sometimes, but I'll try to do dat, now."

"Thank you. Now, let's get the stuff cleared up and roll in."

In the middle of the night Jim heard a strange noise, a puzzling sound he
could not trace. Becoming wider awake, it resolved itself into a stifled
weeping.

"Hello there, Ches! What's the matter?" he cried.

The boy flung himself into Jim's arms with a cry. "Ar, I'm scart to
deat'," said he. "Take holt uf me, Mister! Take holt uf me! Dere ain't
anyt'ing but you and me here 'tall!"

Jim gathered up the trembling figure. "Nothing will hurt you, Ches," he
said. "You're safe here."

"I wasn't t'inkin' of gettin' hurted," retorted the boy, with shaky
indignation. "Did youse t'ink I'd weaken fur dat? Yer don't know me, den.
Dat ain't bodderin' me--I've been hurted plenty. I'm just scart, dat's
wat's der matter."

"Well, now, you cuddle right up in my arms, like a little puppy dog, and
you'll feel all right."

"Say, you're prutty good stuff, Mister Felton," whimpered the little
voice. "Dis is der bulliest time I ever had, even if I am scart."

"I think you're a brave boy, Ches. Now go to sleep."

A small hand reached timidly around until it found the man's and gave it
an affectionate squeeze. "Good night, sir," said Ches.

Jim lay awake, thinking dreamily, long after the boy's regular breathing
showed that he was at peace again. The man felt a tenderness for the waif
so abruptly put in his care that only a lonely man can feel. He
speculated about the boy's future; he wondered what kind of a man he
would make. Surely, with a foundation of such courage, the better part
could be brought out.

Then he wondered what Anne would say to the adoption, or rather what
advice she would gi