Toby Tyler; Or, Ten Weeks with a Circus

“Wouldn't you give more 'n six peanuts for a cent?” was a question asked by a very small boy, with big, staring eyes, of a candy vender at a circus booth. And as he spoke he looked wistfully at the quantity of nuts piled high up on the basket, and then at the six, each of which now looked so small as he held them in his hand.
“Couldn't do it,” was the reply of the proprietor of the booth, as he put the boy's penny carefully away in the drawer.
The little fellow looked for another moment at his purchase, and then carefully cracked the largest one.
A shade—and a very deep shade it was—of disappointment passed over his face, and then, looking up anxiously, he asked, “Don't you swap 'em when they're bad?”
The man's face looked as if a smile had been a stranger to it for a long time; but one did pay it a visit just then, and he tossed the boy two nuts, and asked him a question at the same time. “What is your name?”
The big brown eyes looked up for an instant, as if to learn whether the question was asked in good faith, and then their owner said, as he carefully picked apart another nut, “Toby Tyler.”
“Well, that's a queer name.”
“Yes, I s'pose so, myself; but, you see, I don't expect that's the name that belongs to me. But the fellers call me so, an' so does Uncle Dan'l.”
“Who is Uncle Daniel?” was the next question. In the absence of other customers the man seemed disposed to get as much amusement out of the boy as possible.
“He hain't my uncle at all; I only call him so because all the boys do, an' I live with him.”
“Where's your father and mother?”
“I don't know,” said Toby, rather carelessly. “I don't know much about 'em, an' Uncle Dan'l says they don't know much about me. Here's another bad nut; goin' to give me two more?”