"Well, now, I'll tell you all I know about it. The first thing 'at I 'member is 'at I was a-livin' with Gran'pa Simon in Philadelphy. He wasn't my gran'pa, though; if he had 'a' been he wouldn't 'a' 'bused me so. I don't know where he got me, but he treated me very bad; an' when I wouldn't do bad things for him, he whipped me, he whipped me awful, an' he shet me up in the dark all day an' all night, 'an didn't give me nothin' to eat; an' I'm dreadful 'fraid o' the dark; an' I wasn't more'n jest about so high, neither. Well, you see, I couldn't stan' it, an' one day I run away. I wouldn't 'a' run away if I could 'a' stood it, but I _couldn't_ stan' it no longer. Gran'pa Simon wasn't there when I run away. He used to go off an' leave me with Ole Sally, an' she wasn't much better'n him, only she couldn't see very well, an' she couldn't follow me. I slep' with Buck the bootblack that night, an' nex' mornin', early, I started out in the country. I was 'fraid they'd find me if I stayed aroun' the city. It was pirty near afternoon 'fore I got out where the fields is, an' then a woman, she give me sumpthin' to eat. I wanted to git away from the city fur's I could, an' day-times I walked fast, an' nights I slep' under the big trees, an' folks in the houses along the road, they give me things to eat. An' then a circus came along, an' the man on the tiger wagon he give me a ride, an' then I went everywhere with the circus, an' I worked for 'em, oh! for a good many days; I worked real hard too, a-doin' everything, an' they never let me go into their show but once, only jest once. Well, w'en we got here to Scranton I got sick, an' they wouldn't take me no furder 'cause I wasn't any good to 'em, an' they went off an' lef me, an' nex' mornin' I laid down up there along the road a-cryin' an' a-feelin' awful bad, an' then Uncle Billy, he happened to come that way, an' he foun' me an' took me home with him. He lives in part o' Widow Maloney's house, you know, an' he ain't got nobody but me, an' I ain't got nobody but him, an' we live together. That's why they call him Bachelor Billy, 'cause he ain't never got married. Oh! he's been awful good to me, Uncle Billy has, awful good!" And the boy looked out again musingly into the blue distance. The man had not once stirred during this recital. His eyes had been fixed on the boy's face, and he had listened with intense interest. "Well, Ralph," he said, "that is indeed a strange story. And is that all you know about yourself? Have you no clew to your parentage or birthplace?" "No, sir; not any. That's what I want to find out when I git money enough." "How much money have you now?" "About nine dollars, countin' what I'll save from nex' pay day." "And how do you propose to proceed when you have money enough?"