"No. I have n't had time to spend more than a few dollars since I left you. I ought to have hung on to you as a mascot." "It's a cinch. I c'u'd a-helped yuh if yer 'd follered me. Me ten spot's gone." "How'd you do it?" "Huh? Yuh talks as though a feller'd have to hunt round an' find a hole to drop it inter. Dere 's allers one that's handy, 'n' that's th' rent hole." "That does n't come on you, does it? Where's your Daddy?" "Dead," answered the boy laconically. The word had a new meaning to Donaldson as it fell from the lips of the boy. Dead. It was a terrible word. "Guess th' ol' gent must ha' thought I was comin' to join him a minute ago. Would ha' been sort of rough on Mumsy." "And on you, too," returned Donaldson fiercely. "You have been cheated out of a lot of life. Don't let that happen. Cling to every minute you can get. Die hard, boy. Die hard." Bobby yawned. CHAPTER XII _District Messenger 3457_ The home of District Messenger 3457, who was known in private life as Bobby Wentworth, was what is technically called a basement kitchen. Take it between four and five in the afternoon, which was a couple of hours before Bobby was expected home, and in consequence, at least an hour and a half before anything was astir in the way of supper, things got sort of lonesome looking and dull to Sis, daughter of the house. Ten to one that the baby--the tow-headed youngest--was a bit fussy; ten to one the mother gave you a sharp answer if you spoke to her, though, considering everything, she was remarkably patient; ten to one that every torn and cracked thing in the room became so conspicuous that you felt like a poor lone orphan girl and wanted to cry. If you did n't live below the sidewalk this was apt to go on until it was time to get supper, but here, in order to see to do the mending, the lamp was lighted, even in May, an hour or so earlier than the fire.