Outside the snow whirled and eddied, the drifts glistening white in the glare of the electric light. I drew my fur coat closer around my throat, and beat an impatient tattoo with my feet. The storm had delayed the train, and I had less than an hour in which to dine, dress, and reach my audience. Two minutes later something struck the cab with a force that rattled every spoke in the wheels. It was my trunk, and cabby's head, white with snow, was thrust through the window. "Morgan House, did you say, boss?" "Yes, and on the double-quick." Another voice now sifted in--a small, thin, pleading voice, too low and indistinct for me to catch the words from where I sat. "Want to go where?" cried cabby. The conversation was like one over the telephone, in which only one side is heard. "To the orphan asylum? Why, that's three miles from here.... Walk?... See, here, sonny, you wouldn't get halfway.... No, I can't take yer--got a load." My own head had filled the window now. "Here, cabby, don't stand there all night! What's the matter, anyway?" "It's a boy, boss, about a foot high, wants to walk to the orphan 'sylum." "Pass him in." He did, literally, through the window, without opening the door, his little wet shoes first, then his sturdy legs in wool stockings, round body encased in a pea-jacket, and last, his head, covered by the same cloth cap I had seen on the platform. I caught him, feet first, and helped land him on the front seat, where he sat looking at me with staring eyes that shone all the brighter in the glare of the arc light. Next a collar-box and a small paper bundle were handed in. These the little fellow clutched eagerly, one in each hand, his eyes still looking into mine. "Are you an orphan?" I asked--a wholly thoughtless question, of course. "Yes, sir." "Got no father nor mother?" Another, equally idiotic; but my interest in the boy had been inspired by the idea of the saving of valuable minutes. As long as he stood outside in the snow, he was an obstruction. Once aboard, I could take my time in solving his difficulties. "Got a father, sir, but my mother's dead." We were now whirling up the street, the cab lighting up and growing pitch dark by turns, depending on the location of the street lamps. "Where's your father?" "Went away, sir." He spoke the words without the slightest change in his voice, neither abashed nor too bold, but with a simple straightforwardness which convinced me of their truth. "Do you want to go to the asylum?" "Yes, sir." "Why?" "Because I can learn everything there is to learn, and there isn't any other place for me to go." This was said with equal simplicity. No whining; no "me mother's dead, sir, an' I ain't had nothin' to eat all day," etc. Not that air about him at all. It was merely the statement of a fact which he felt sure I knew all about. "What's your name?" "Ned." "Ned what?" "Ned Rankin, sir." "How old are you?" "I'm eight"--then, thoughtfully--"no, I'm nine years old."