Rob evidently knew him, for he asked, familiarly: “What luck to-day, old man?” “Made eleven cents and blowed in three. Say,” he added, in an undertone, though loud enough to be heard by Deacon Cornhill, “got a big duck? Looks awful green.” “Hush!” warned Rob, adding in a louder key: “I’ve got to see the gent here gets to Bradford’s O. K. Then I’ll hev you go home with me.” “What’s your name, bub?” asked the deacon, who felt it a duty to say something. “Chick.” “I mean the name your parents gave you.” “Golly; what an idee. Never had any, mister.” “Where do you live?” “Nowhere.” “Onpossible. Where’d you stop last night?” “Corner A and Tenth Street.” “Whose house, I mean. I hope it was a good man’s.” “Dunno ’bout that, sir. I didn’t see him, nor I didn’t go in.” “But you said you stopped there?” “So I did.” “How could that be if you did not go in?” “My cracky! ain’t you green? S’pose I’d gone in, how long d’ye s’pose I’d been guv to git out?” “I don’t understand you, bub.” “Any more’n I do sich a cabbage as you. I reckon there’s a way o’ stopping at a gentleman’s house without bothering him wid your comp’ny.” “How can that be?” asked the wondering deacon, believing the boy was guying him. “How could you stop at a man’s house without seeing any one or they seeing you?” “Slept under th’ covin’, mister.” “Marcy me! out in the night? S’posin’ it’d rained?” “I’d got wet, I s’pose, seein’ I’m not canvas-backed,” with a grin. “And got your death of cold?” “Ain’t so sure on that, mister. Th’ sun has alwus dried a feller out slick, and I ain’t heerd as he’s goin’ out’n bizness jis yit.” “What do you do, Chick?--I think you said that was your name?” “Pick up odd jobs, by which I can turn a penny, sir. My family is small, so I don’t hev to hev much.” “Ain’t you got any folks?” “Nope.” “Don’t you get tired of living like this?” “Don’t know any other way, mister.” “What a pity! In this Christian land, too!” “Got any more questions to ax, mister?” as the other hesitated; “’cos if ye hev I shall hev to begin to ax ye a fee, same’s the big chucks do up in the recorder’s office.” Before Deacon Cornhill could reply he became aware of the confusion arising from a crowd of people standing about the entrance to a gloomy structure near at hand. “What’s the matter?” he asked, in surprise. “Only a girl up for vagrancy,” replied a bystander. “It don’t take much to draw a crowd. But she is a pert one, and with a boy’s name.” “What is it?” asked Rob, beginning to show interest. “Joe Willet, or some such a name, she gave the recorder.” Without waiting for him to finish his speech, Rob began to elbow his way through the jostling crowd, and a moment later passed the high portals of the wide door. “Here, here, my son!” cried Deacon Cornhill, excitedly, “hold on for me!” And, regardless of the jeers and outbursts of the spectators, he made a furious dash after his young guide.