"But after the boy come he got restless. Said it was no life for a kid. Went off finally—to Klondike, or somewhere—to make his fortune. Never heard of him since. Of course he's dead or he'd found us, for lemme tell you, Miss, the repertation of Twomley & Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie ain't a light hid under a bushel—by no manner o' means!"
Not if Mr. Sorber were allowed to advertise it, that was sure. But the man went on:
"So there you have it. Neale's mine. I'm his uncle. His mother told me when she was dying to look after him. And I'm a-going to. Now trot him out, Miss," and Mr. Sorber mopped his bald brow under the jaunty stiff hat. He was quite breathless.
"But I haven't him here, sir," said Agnes. "He doesn't live here."
"He ain't here?"
"No. He is living near. But he is not at home now."
"Now, see here——"
"I never tell stories," said Agnes, gravely.
Mr. Sorber had the grace to blush. "I dunno as I doubt ye, Miss——"
"We expect Neale here about four o'clock. Before that my sister Ruth will be at home. I want you to stay and see her, Mr. Sorber——"