“But how in the world do you discover them all—these forlorn specimens of humanity?” queried Bertram one evening, when he had found Billy entertaining a freckled-faced messenger-boy with a plate of ice cream and a big square of cake.
“Anywhere—everywhere,” smiled Billy.
“Well, this last candidate for your favor, who has just gone—who's he?”
“I don't know, beyond that his name is 'Tom,' and that he likes ice cream.”
“And you never saw him before?”
“Never.”
“Humph! One wouldn't think it, to see his charming air of nonchalant accustomedness.”
“Oh, but it doesn't take much to make a little fellow like that feel at home,” laughed Billy.
“And are you in the habit of feeding every one who comes to your house, on ice cream and chocolate cake? I thought that stone doorstep of yours was looking a little worn.”
“Not a bit of it,” retorted Billy. “This little chap came with a message just as I was finishing dinner. The ice cream was particularly good to-night, and it occurred to me that he might like a taste; so I gave it to him.”