blowing on his neck. He laughed a little, just to show that he didn't
object to a bit of fun at his expense, but when the annoyance was
continued he put on a serious face, and folding up his cap thrust it
into his overcoat pocket. He was not going to be made a butt of!

"Where is your home?" I asked him.

"I haven't got a home," he returned.

"What, no home? Where was your home when you had one?"

"I never had a home," he said. "I've always been travelling; but
sometimes we stay a month in a place." Then, after an interval, he
added: "I belong to a dramatic company."

"And do you ever go on the stage to act?" I asked.

"Yes," he returned, with a weary little sigh.

Then our journey came to an end, and we saw the doors and windows of
the St. Just Working Men's Institute aflame with yellow placards
announcing a series of sensational plays to be performed there.

The queer-looking people came down and straggled off to the Institute,
paying no attention to the small boy. "Let me advise you," I said,
standing over him on the pavement, "to treat yourself to a stiff
tumbler of grog after your cold ride," and at the same time I put my
hand in my pocket.

He didn't smile, but at once held out his open hand. I put some pence