Honest, the way he passed out that whopper was worth watchin'. It was done as cool and scientific as a real estate man takin' oath there wa'n't a mosquito in the whole county. "Then you're just travelin' around loose, eh?" says I. "Where'd you strike from to-day?" "Chicago," says he. "Do tell!" says I. "That's quite a day's run. You must have left before breakfast." "I had breakfast early," says he. "Dinner in Buffalo?" says I. "I didn't stop for dinner," says he. "In that case--er--what's the name?" says I. "Mister Smith," says he. "Easy name to remember," says I. "Ye-e-es. I'd rather you called me Gerald, though," says he. "Good," says I. "Well, Gerald, seein' as you've made a long jump since breakfast, what do you say to grubbin' up a little with me, eh?" That strikes him favourable, and as Mother Whaley is just bringin' in the platter, we goes inside and sits down, Togo and all. He sure didn't fall to like a half starved kid; but maybe that was because he was so busy lookin' at Mrs. Whaley. She ain't much on the French maid type, that's a fact. Her uniform is a checked apron over a faded red wrapper, and she has a way of puggin' her hair up in a little knob that makes her face look like one of the kind they cut out of a cocoanut. Gerald eyes her for a while; then he leans over to me and whispers, "Is this the butler's night off?" "Yes," says I. "He has seven a week. This is one of 'em." After he's thought that over he grins. "I see," says he. "You means you haven't a butler? Why, I thought everyone did." "There's a few of us struggles along without," says I. "We don't brag about it, though. But where do you keep your butler now, Mr. Gerald?" That catches him with his guard down, and he begins to look mighty puzzled. "Oh, come," says I, "you might's well own up. You've brought the runaway act right down to the minute, son; but barrin' the details, it's the same old game. I done the same when I was your age, only instead of runnin' off in a thousand-dollar bubble, I sneaked into an empty freight car." "Did you?" says he, his eyes openin' wide. "Was it nice, riding in the freight car?" "Never had so much fun out of a car ride since," says I. "But I was on the war path then. My outfit was a blank cartridge pistol, a scalpin' knife hooked from the kitchen, and a couple of nickel lib'ries that told all about Injun killin'. Don't lay out to slaughter any redskins, do you?" He looks kind of weary, and shakes his head. "Well, runnin' a trolley car has its good points, I s'pose," says I; "but I wouldn't tackle it for a year or so if I was you. You'd better give me your 'phone number, and I'll ring up the folks, so they won't be worryin' about you." But say, this Gerald boy, alias Mr. Smith, don't fall for any smooth talk like that. He just sets his jaws hard and remarks, quiet like, "I guess I'd better be going." "Where to?" says I.