Maybe he was a big ten or a small twelve; anyway, he wa'n't more. He's one of these fine haired, light complected youngsters, that a few years ago would have had yellow Fauntleroy curls, and been rigged out in a lace collar and a black velvet suit, and had a nurse to lead him around by the hand. But the new crop of young Astergould Thickwads is bein' trained on different lines. This kid was a good sample. His tow coloured hair is just long enough to tousle nice, and he's bare headed at that. Then he's got on corduroy knickers, a khaki jacket, black leather leggin's, and gauntlet gloves, and he looks almost as healthy as if he was poor. "Hello, youngster!" says I. "Did you lose the shuffer overboard?" "Beg pardon," says he; "but I drive my own machine." "Oh!" says I. "I might have known by the costume." By this time he's standin' up with his hand to his ear, squintin' out through the trees to the main road, like he was listenin' for somethin'. In a second he hears one of them big six-cylinder cars go hummin' past, and it seems to be what he was waitin' for. "Goin' to stop, are you?" says I. "Thank you," says he, "I will stay a little while, if you don't mind," and he proceeds to shut off the gasolene and climb out. The dog follows him. "Givin' some one the slip?" says I. "Oh, no," says he real prompt. "I--I've been in a race, that's all." "Ye-e-es?" says I. "Had a start, didn't you?" "A little," says he. With that he sits down on the steps, snuggles the terrier up alongside of him, and begins to look me and the place over careful, without sayin' any more. Course, that ain't the way boys usually act, unless they've got stage fright, and this one didn't seem at all shy. As near as I could guess, he was thinkin' hard, so I let him take his time. I figures out from his looks, and his showin' up in a runabout, that he's come from some of them big country places near by, and that when he gets ready he'll let out what he's after. Sure enough, pretty soon he opens up. "Wouldn't you like to buy the machine, sir?" says he. "Selling out, are you?" says I. "Well, what's your askin' price for a rig of that kind?" He sizes me up for a minute, and then sends out a feeler. "Would five dollars be too much?" "No," says I, "I shouldn't call that a squeeze, providin' you threw in the dog." He looks real worried then, and hugs the terrier up closer than ever. "I couldn't sell Togo," says he. "You--you wouldn't want him too, would you?" When I sees that it wouldn't take much more to get them big blue eyes of his to leakin', I puts him easy on the dog question. "But what's your idea of sellin' the bubble?" says I. "Why," says he, "I won't need it any longer. I'm going to be a motorman on a trolley car." "That's a real swell job," says I. "But how will the folks at home take it?" "The folks at home?" says he, lookin' me straight in the eye. "Why, there aren't any. I haven't any home, you know."