Billy felt himself somewhat at a loss to deal with this well-formed impression, so he contented himself with the remark, "But you haven't told me what your name is yet?" She rose upon her knees in the bed and leaned over toward him. "My really name is Lotchen." "Lotchen what?" "That's all--just Lotchen." "Where's your mother, Lotchen?" "I don't know; do you?" "There's something queer about this business," said Billy to himself. "And if that Wrangler man don't make it plain he'll find hisself in trouble. What is your father's name, Lotchen?" he inquired aloud. "Who's that?" "Your father. Haven't you a father?" "I don't know. The black man says he can turn me into a toothpick if he wants to." Billy doubled up his fist and looked at it grimly. "Well, he won't want to," he said. "Don't you be afraid. I'll take care of you." "Oh, will you?" "For a little while, anyhow." "How long?" "Well, till you get your breakfast." "Where's he gone?" "Who?" "The black man." "He's upstairs in his room. You can go to him after breakfast." "I don't want to go. I'm afraid of his knife. I sit and hold on my big toe all day. Have you got a knife, too?" She looked at him with an expression he could not understand. Perhaps her natural trust in mankind had been somewhat shaken. "My knife wont hurt you," he said. Lotchen crawled to the edge of the bed, leaned over and put her two hands on his, and said, "Then let's you and me run away from the black man." Billy looked much amused. "No," he replied, "we won't do that, Lotchen; but I shouldn't wonder if he was to run away from us. Don't your uncle love you?" "He loves his nose better," she replied. "His which?" "His nose. He's all the time rubbing it up and down." "But don't he love you, too?" "No." "What makes you think that?" "'Cause I'm afraid of him." "When did you see him first, Lotchen?" "Oh, ever so long. He's had me, you know." "Yes, I know that. What's he been doing with you?"