him."

"Oh, well, maybe this letter of his will help us out on that,"
suggested Higgins soothingly. "Anyhow, even if it doesn't, I'm
not worrying any. I guess some one will want him--a good healthy
boy like that."

"Did you find any money on the body?" asked Streeter.

"A little change--a few cents. Nothing to count. If the boy's
letter doesn't tell us where any of their folks are, it'll be up
to the town to bury him all right."

"He had a fiddle, didn't he? And the boy had one, too. Wouldn't
they bring anything?" Streeter's round blue eyes gleamed
shrewdly.

Higgins gave a slow shake of his head.

"Maybe--if there was a market for 'em. But who'd buy 'em? There
ain't a soul in town plays but Jack Gurnsey; and he's got one.
Besides, he's sick, and got all he can do to buy bread and butter
for him and his sister without taking in more fiddles, I guess.
HE wouldn't buy 'em."

"Hm--m; maybe not, maybe not," grunted Streeter. "An', as you
say, he's the only one that's got any use for 'em here; an' like
enough they ain't worth much, anyway. So I guess 't is up to the
town all right."