“That’s right,” nodded Ralph.
“Well, I’ve heard of you, and you’ve been a friend to a good many people. I hope I’m not over bold, but if you would be a friend to me--”
Here the strange boy paused in a pitiful, longing way that appealed to Ralph.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“I heard this gentleman,” indicating Mr. Fry, “offer to sell the chickens down the embankment. I’m a poor boy, Mr. Fairbanks--dreadfully poor. There’s reasons why I can’t work in the towns like other boys. You can give me work, though--you can just set me on my feet.”
“How can I do that?” inquired Ralph, getting interested.
“By buying me those chickens. I’ve got the place for them, I’ve got the time to attend to them, and I know just how to handle them. Why,” continued the speaker excitedly, “there’s nearly two hundred in prime trim gathered in a little thicket over yonder, and there’s double that number among the wreckage, besides those that are hurt that I can nurse and mend up. If you will buy them for me, I’ll solemnly promise to return you the money in a week and double the amount of interest in two.”
“You talk clear and straight and earnest, my lad,” here broke in the claim agent. “What’s your name?”
“Glen Palmer.”
“Do you live near here?”