ostwhistle; "I remember seeing 'er
there--leastways, it was an 'er right enough then. What 'ave you done
with your clothes?"

"They weren't mine," explained Tommy. "They were things what Mrs.
Hammond had lent me."

"Is that your own?" asked Mrs. Postwhistle, indicating the blue silk
garibaldi.

"Yes."

"What went with it?"

"Tights. They were too far gone."

"What made you give up the tumbling business and go to Mrs. 'Ammond's?"

"It gave me up. Hurt myself."

"Who were you with last?"

"Martini troupe."

"And before that?"

"Oh! heaps of 'em."

"Nobody ever told you whether you was a boy or a girl?"

"Nobody as I'd care to believe. Some of them called me the one, some of
them the other. It depended upon what was wanted."

"How old are you?"

"I dunno."

Mrs. Postwhistle turned to Peter, who was jingling keys.

"Well, there's the bed upstairs. It's for you to decide."

"What I don't want to do," explained Peter, sinking his voice to a
confidential whisper, "is to make a fool of myself."

"That's always a good rule," agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, "for those to whom
it's possible."

"Anyhow," said Peter, "one night can't do any harm. To-morrow we can
think what's to be done."

"To-morrow" had always been Peter's lucky day. At the mere mention of
the magic date his spirits invariably rose. He now turned upon Tommy a
countenance from which all hesitation was banished.

"Very well, Tommy," said Mr. Peter Hope, "you can sleep here to-night. Go
with Mrs. Postwhistle, and she'll show you your room."

The black eyes shone.

"You're going to give me a trial?"

"We'll talk about all that to-morrow." The black eyes clouded.

"Look here. I tell you straight, it ain't no good."

"What do you mean? What isn't any good?" demanded Peter.

"You'll want to send me to prison."

"To prison!"

"Oh, yes. You'll call it a school, I know. You ain't the first that's
tried that on. It won't work." The bright, black eyes were flashing
passionately. "I ain't done any harm. I'm willing to work. I can keep
myself. I always have. What's it got to do with anybody else?"

Had the bright, black eyes retained their expression of passionate
defiance, Peter Hope might have retained his common sense. Only Fate
arranged that instead they should suddenly fill with wild tears. And at
sight of them Peter's common sense went out of the room disgusted, and
there was born the history of many things.