“Bob Slocum,” he replied, answering the second question first: “Oh, I don’t know,” he continued, “yer see old Pop Bates is so deef that he can’t half hear what folks says to him, and so I kinder got into the way of comin’ along ’bout train time when the mail was due, and then I could help him out. Sometimes there is a letter or something for some of the folks ’round here and I take it to ’em. That saves ’em comin’ to the post office, and they near ’bout always give me a hunk of cake or a piece of pie, er suthin’, an’ say: ‘Thanky, Bob.’ That’s about the only time I ever get anything _sweet_ for my heart er my gizzard; fer old Wheeler--he’s the man I live with--aint got nothin’ fer a feller but thumps and leavin’s.” “Haven’t you any parents?” “Nope; don’t even remember them. Ma, she died when I was born, and dad didn’t live long after her. Folks ’round here says he died ’cause ma did. He worked for old Wheeler, and I reckon most likely he starved ter death. He’d like to starve me if he could. But I guess I aint the starvin’ kind. I can git along somehow, and folks ’round here is pretty good to me.” “What do you do for Mr. Wheeler? You can’t be more than twelve years old.” “I’ll be twelve next November. What _don’t_ I do, you’d better ask. ’Most anything a boy twelve years can do an’ a lot some fifteen can’t. I milk seven cows twice a day; cut all the wood; tote water; take care of the stock; run errants; hoe corn, an’ do about a hundred things beside; an’ all fer my board an’ keep--mostly _keep_.” “Do you go to school?” “Aint none to go ter. Nearest one’s five mile away, an’ old Wheeler don’t keep no trotters fer my use.” “Can you read?” “Yes’m, some. There was a lady stoppin’ up to Squire Davis’s one summer and she learnt me; an’ ever sence I’ve been a-pickin’ up some from the newspapers. Squire Davis takes a lot of ’em, an’ when he’s done with ’em he lets me have ’em.” By this time they had reached their destination and the boy, pointing to a low white house which nestled in a garden filled with hollyhocks, dahlias, and brilliant asters, said: “There’s Mis’ Parker’s. You go on in an’ tell Si, her hired man, ter come out an’ get yer bag whilst I stay here along with my friends.” Without a thought of questioning him the woman started for the house, and, turning to the child upon the wagon, who thus far had scarcely spoken a word, he said: “You’ll soon be all right now. Are yer tired?” “Not very. The ride on the train from Boston was awful hot, but this part has been splendid. How did you ever get Lady to let you hitch her up this way? She loves you, doesn’t she, and Sonny does, too; how did you make them?”