Two boys and a dog sat at the edge of a little wood and shiveringly watched the eastern sky pale from inky blue to gray. One of the boys was white and the other was black; and the dog was yellow. The white boy was seventeen years old, the black boy sixteen, and the yellow dog--well, no one knew just how old he was. The white boy’s name was Wayne Torrence Sloan, the black boy’s name was Junius Brutus Bartow Tasker, and the dog’s name was Sam. An hour ago they had been rudely awakened from their sleep in a box car and more rudely driven forth into cold and darkness and mystery. They had had no complaint to make, for they had lain undisturbed in the car ever since the middle of the previous afternoon; and between that time and an hour ago had rumbled and jolted over miles and miles of track, just how many miles there was no way of telling until, having learned their present whereabouts, Wayne should puzzle out the matter of distance on the frayed and tattered time-table in his pocket. Travelling as they had travelled, on foot or stealing rides when the chance offered, makes a philosopher of one, and instead of objecting to the fate that had overtaken them when a suspicious train hand had flashed his lantern into the gloomy recesses of the box car, they had departed hurriedly and in silence, being thankful that the exodus had not been forced on them long before. Minute by minute the sky brightened. The steely gray became softer in tone and began to flush with a suggestion of rose. The stars paled. A wan gleam of approaching daylight fell on one burnished rail of the track which lay a few rods distant. The trees behind them took on form and substance and their naked branches became visibly detailed against the sky. The dog whined softly and curled himself tighter in Wayne’s arms. Wayne stretched the corner of his gray sweater over the thin back and eased himself from the cramped position against the trunk of a small tree. “What would you do, June, if someone came along about now with a can of hot coffee?” he asked, breaking the silence that had lasted for many minutes. The negro boy aroused from his half doze and flashed the whites of his eyes in the gloom. “Mas’ Wayne,” he answered fervently, “I’d jus’ about love that Mister Man. M-m-mm! Hot coffee! Lawsy-y! You reckon it ever goin’ to get lightsome, Mas’ Wayne?” “I reckon we can start along pretty soon now, June. Whereabouts do you suspect we are?” “I reckon we must be gettin’ mighty nigh New York. How far was we yesterday?” “’Most two hundred and fifty miles. If we’d just kept right on going all night we might have been in New York right now, but that freight was standing still more times than it was moving, I reckon. Look yonder, June. Daylight’s surely coming, isn’t it?”