"That we do," said the contortionist, rubbing his narrow abdomen and drawing a lugubrious mouth. "You must be quite frozen in those wet clothes," observed Mrs. Braddock pityingly. "I can't stay here, ma'am," he said abruptly. The hunted look came back into his eyes. "He's no regular bum," said the "strong man," in the background, addressing the pink-limbed "lady juggler." "He's got a 'istory, that boy 'as," said the lady addressed, deeply interested. "Makes me think o' that boy Dickens wrote about. What was his name?" "How should I know?" demanded the strong man. "You Britishers are always workin' off riddles about something somebody wrote." "What is your name?" asked the gentle-voiced woman at the boy's side. "Where do you come from?" He hesitated, still uncertain of his standing among these strange, apparently friendly people. "I can't tell you my name," he said in a low voice. "I hoped you wouldn't ask me. I have no home now--not since--Oh, a long time ago, it seems. More than a week, I reckon, ma'am." "You have been wandering about like this for a week?" she asked in surprise. He gulped. "Yes, ma'am. Since the eleventh of May." He wanted to tell her that he had been hunted from county to county for over a week, but something held his tongue. He felt that she would understand and sympathize, but he was not so sure of the others. Perhaps she suspected what was going on in that troubled brain, for she laid her hand gently upon his arm and said: "Never mind, then. When you are stronger, you may go. I am sure you are a good boy." He thanked her with a look of mute gratitude. The girl with the long red cloak came tripping back with a tray. She placed it on his knees; then she whisked away the napkin which covered it. All he knew was that he smiled up into her eyes through his tears, and that the smell of warm food assailed his nostrils. As she straightened up, the neglected cloak slipped from her shoulders. She caught it on her arm, but did not attempt to replace it. He lowered his eyes, singularly abashed. A trim, clean figure in red tights stood before him, absolutely without fear or shame or in the least conscious of her attire. He was in her world, that was all. In his, outside that canvas crucible and between performances, she would have died of mortification if, by chance, there had been one-tenth of the exposure. Here, she was as fully dressed and as modestly as she would be an hour later, clothed from head to foot in the conventional garments of her sex, rigidly observing the strictest laws of delicacy.