“This is my boat,” he said briefly, and threw open the door. Buddy sat on the floor as Peter had left him, playing with the “funny” dog. As Peter entered he looked up.
“My funny dog ain't got no tail, Uncle Peter,” he said.
“Yes, he has, Buddy,” said Peter, with a great sigh of relief. “He's got a tail, but you can't see it because he's sitting on it.”
But Buddy was looking past Peter at the tramp. The man, his thumbs in the torn armholes of his coat, his head on one side, one leg raised in the air, was making faces at Buddy. As Peter turned, the tramp put the toe of his boot through the handle of his valise and raised it, tossing it in the air with his foot.
Buddy laughed with glee.
“That's a funny man, Uncle Peter,” he said. “Who's him?”
The tramp stepped aside and put his wet valise on the floor. Then he took off his hat and laid it across his breast and bowed low to Buddy.
“Yer royal highness,” he said gravely. “I am knowed from near to far as The No-Less-Talented-Stranger-Who-Came-Out Of-the-East-and-Got-His-Permanent-Set-back-In-the-Booze. Can you say that?”
Buddy laughed.
“Booge,” he said. “That's a funny name.”