The boy said this in such a forlorn way that Frank felt there was some pathetic cause for the despair expressed.
“You ran away from the policeman, too,” suggested Frank.
“Yes, he wouldn’t have much use for my kind,” observed the boy.
Frank was silent for a moment, intensely studying as far as the dim light would allow the figure and face of his companion.
“What’s your name?” he asked suddenly.
“My name—oh,” sort of stammered the boy, “why, it’s Markham.”
“Well, Markham,” said Frank very kindly, placing a gentle hand on the lad’s arm, “you and I should be good friends. Don’t edge away from me. You say you were trying to get out of the city. Had you no idea of where you were bound for?”
“Nowhere, but the country. Some place where I’d be safe—I mean where they couldn’t find—that is, oh, just to get to some quiet little country town where I could get work.”
“I’ve got the town and I’ll guarantee the work,” cried Frank heartily, slapping Markham on the shoulder. “See here, no secrets between friends now. You’ve got no money, or you wouldn’t be riding on car tops.”
“That’s true enough,” admitted the boy, forcing a laugh.