He ripped the shirt from his shoulders. An angry growl went up from all those big-bearded men when they saw the horrible stripes and welts--raw, blue and swollen--on the poor little back. Happy Jack threw up both his gorilla arms. "Lord Jesus! Who done you like dat, boy?" he cried. "'F I got m' hookers on him, cuss me 'f I wudden' put bumps on him bigger'n yer hull body." "Now yer talkin'," shrieked the boy. He raised himself to the tips of his toes, bared his teeth to the gum, and with clutching talons, gripping at the air, yelled: "Aggh! If I had me growth! I'd bite his heart out! I'd tear his neck for 'im!" The men looked astounded on this mighty fury, pent in so small and miserable a cage. The voice had a peculiar alarming call to it, like the note of a fire-gong. Suddenly the boy's head dropped on the crook of his arm. "Treated me wuss'n a dog," he sobbed out. "Done me so it makes even dat nigger holler when he sees it." Happy Jack was taken aback. The other men smoothed down their faces forcibly. "Say, lil' boy, you think dat's a p'lite way to talk to people?" inquired Jack. The boy wiped his eyes on his sleeve and went over to him. "Say, don't yer holt nothin' ag'in me fur der word," said he. "Dey've got me looney--dat's wot--yer've used me liker fren'; and if it hoits yer, yer can kick me pants fur me, and I won't say nuthin'." "Well, there's two-pound-and-a-half of dead game sport for you, all right!" cried Benny. "Good eye, kid!" Happy Jack smiled a mollified smile eight inches wide. "You is all right, beau," said he. "An' as fur as my bein' a nigger's concerned, I'll admit my kerplection ain't light." He slapped his ham and brought down a foot on the platform. "Hyah, hyah!" he roared, "you bet dere ain't no dam' blond 'bout me!" The infectious darky laugh started the others off, and brought matters to a common-sense footing. The passenger agent took up the interrogation. Was the man the boy's real father? Answer: "How'd I know? Dat's der song he guv me." Were there any relatives? Friends? Answer: "Naw!" Well, what did the boy propose to do? Answer, digging his toes into the boards: "Didn't know--anyt'ing!" What was his name? "Jim." Jim what? "Didn't know. Sometimes der gun callt himself 'Darragh,' an' sometimes 'Mullen,' an' sometimes 'Smit.' Aggh! He callt himself the foist t'ing dat come to his tongue--he didn't have no real name." The agent talked to him a bit more, winding up by saying kindly: "You've had a pretty rough time of it, Jimmy, and we'd all like to give you a lift--now, just say what you'd like to do, and maybe we can fix it." "I'd like to go along wid dat feller, 'f he'll take me," replied the boy, tossing a thumb toward Jim Felton. There was a becoming access of shyness in his manner; moreover, Felton had an increased interest in him when he knew they bore the same name--a sort of kinship, as it were. "Well, it's up to you, Mister--" said the passenger agent, with a smile.