“Medfield, son. Aren’t lost, are you?” “No, sir. What--what state are we in?” “Pennsylvania. What state might you be looking for, son?” “New York. Is it very far?” “Second state on the right,” laughed the man. “What part of it are you aiming for?” “New York City, I reckon. How far would that be?” “About a hundred and fifty miles.” Wayne sighed. “I thought we were nearer than that. Thank you, sir.” “Say, hold on! Where’d you come from, anyway?” Wayne pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Back there a ways,” he answered vaguely. “Tramping it?” “Yes, sir, some. Rode on the cars, too.” The big man in the doorway winked down at him. “When they didn’t see you, eh? You look like a smart kid. What are you beating your way around the country for? Why don’t you get a job and go to work?” “I’m looking for work,” answered Wayne eagerly. “Know where I can find some?” The man shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you won’t have to look very far, son, if you really want a job. The trouble with your sort is that you don’t _want_ to work. How far south do you come from?” “Georgia, sir. How’d you know?” “How’d I know!” laughed the man. “That’s a good one! What’s Friday’s name?” “What, sir?” asked Wayne, puzzled. The man nodded at Wayne’s companion. “What’s his name? Abraham Lincoln White?” “June,” answered Wayne, a trifle stiffly, beginning to suspect that the man was laughing at him. “June, eh? Say, he got North about three months too soon, didn’t he? Where’d you get the alligator hound? Don’t you ever feed him anything?” Wayne moved away, followed by his retinue, but the man in the door was blind to offended dignity. “All right, son!” he called after them. “Good luck! Tell Denny that Jim Mason sent you and that he’s to give you a good feed.” Wayne found the lunch-wagon without difficulty, but it didn’t seem to him that it deserved the name of wagon for it was set on a brick foundation in a weed-grown piece of land under the shadow of the big yellow factory and looked as though it had been there for many years. Still, there might be wheels hidden behind the bricks, he reflected. The words “Golden Star Lunch” were painted on the front. They climbed the steps and seated themselves on stools, while Sam searched famishedly about the floor for stray crumbs. The proprietor was a short, chunky youth with light hair slicked down close and a generous supply of the biggest and reddest freckles Wayne had ever seen. He observed June doubtfully. “We don’t generally feed niggers here,” he said. “You two fellers together?” “Yes,” answered Wayne. “If you don’t want to serve him we’ll get out.” He started to slide off the stool. “Oh, well, never mind,” said the white-aproned youth. “The rush is over now. What’ll you have?” “Coffee and two ham sandwiches, please.” “Mas’ Wayne,” said June, “I’d rather have a piece of that sweet-potato pie yonder, please, sir.” “That ain’t sweet-potato pie,” laughed the proprietor. “That’s squash, Snowball.”