I said, “Three hundred dollars is nothing. I wouldn’t take you back for less than five thousand including the war tax. We accept your proposition. Now tell us where you came from. You don’t belong in Bridgeboro?” Poor little kid, he was so scared he was trembling all over. “If I tell you, you’ll take me back,” he said. He looked at me as if he thought I was crazy. Gee whiz, I guess he was right. Westy said, “You came from some home or other?” “Are you going to tell?” the kid asked us, good and scared. “What home?” Westy asked him. “The Boys’ Home up in Willisville?” “I wouldn’t go back there,” the kid said. “I’ll give you as much as a thousand dollars——” Gee whiz, he was a generous kid. I said, “Give us a cigarette, will you?” Good night, he pulled about three packages out of his pocket. He was a walking cigar store. Some of the cigarettes were loose and all crunched up. I took one of them and stuck it in my mouth. Westy said, kind of surprised, “What are you doing?” I said, “We should worry. We’re criminals, aren’t we? We’re up for arson and we’re out on patrol or parole or whatever you call it. We’re going from bad to worse. Got a match, kid?” Oh, boy! He dug his hand into his pocket and fished out about a hundred. They fell all over the floor. I said, “You’ve got matches enough here to set the river on fire.” Pretty soon out came a big pasteboard box like matches come in. It was half full, and matches went falling out of it, all over the ground. I said, “The next time you empty your pockets, kid, you’d better stand in a bath tub. You don’t carry a fire extinguisher with you, do you? What are you digging for now? The thousand dollars?” “I got a cigar,” the kid said; “but it’s busted.” I said, “You don’t happen to have a couple of corn-cob pipes, do you? Do you give out certificates with tobacco? Look at this, Westy,” I said. “Here’s about a thousand dollars’ worth of matches right here. This kid is a whole sulphur mine. Where are you going to get the thousand dollars, kid?” I asked him. “I’m—I’m going to invent a submarine,” he said. “Good night!” I said, going through his pockets for more matches. “That’s a good idea. Under the water is about the safest place for you. I hope you carry fire insurance. You started a peach of a fire last night, didn’t you?” “I can start a bigger one than that,” he said. Just then I hauled out from one of his pockets a book. The cover was all broken off it and it was all loose and torn. The title-page said SKYHIGH SAM AND HIS SUBMARINE. “Who’s this fellow?” I said. “That’s a funny name for a kid that goes down in a submarine—Skyhigh.” “He used to have a balloon,” the poor kid said. I said, “Well, anyway, you’ve got him beat on matches. You started a bigger fire than _he_ ever did, that’s one thing. What’s your name?” “Sam,” he said.