However it had all proved to him beyond a doubt that here was a man of unlimited wealth. On several occasions Uncle Albert's millionaire had treated Johnnie to candy and apples. But now the riches of that person seemed pitifully trivial.
They fared forth and away in the same order as they had come.
But not so silently. Food, it seemed, was what could rouse the one-eyed man to continued speech. He began to ask questions, all of them to the point, most of them embarrassing.
"Say, what in the name o' Sam Hill y' got cached inside that shirt?"—this was the first one.
"Books," returned Johnnie, promptly, "and the orange."
"Y' kinda cotton t' books, eh?" the other next observed.
"Not cotton," replied Johnnie, politely. "They're made of paper."
"Y' don't tell me?—And what y' want me t' call y'?"
"My—my—my," began Johnnie, trying to think and speak at the same time, with small success in either direction. Then feeling himself pressed for time, and helpless, he fell back upon the best course, which was the simple truth. "My name's Johnnie Smith," he added.
The truth was too simple to be believed, "Aw, git out!" laughed the one-eyed man, with a comical lift of the mustache. "And I s'pose y' live with the Vanderbilt fambly, eh?"