“I have no father,” answered the boy, as he scanned the faces round him with his tearful eyes.
“So you’ve got no father, that’s how it is,” said the workman gravely, and shook his head. “Then where’s your mother?”
“I have a mother,” the boy replied.
“What’s her name?”
“Mamma,” said the boy; then, upon reflection, he added, “black mamma.”
Some one laughed in the crowd.
“Black? I wonder whether that’s the name of the family?” suggested the gruff workman.
“First it was a white mamma, and now it’s a black mamma,” said the boy.
“There’s no making head or tail of this,” decided the policeman. “I’ll take him to the station. They’ll telephone about it.”
He went to the gate and rang. But the house-porter had already seen the policeman and, besom in hand, he was coming to the gate. The policeman ordered him to take the boy to the station. But the boy suddenly bethought himself, and cried out: “Never mind, let me go, I’ll find the way myself.”