“Yes,” answered Chris, joyfully and proudly.
“Me brought him to work here.”
“What is his name?”
“Jan.”
It was a beautiful Sunday—fair, cool and bracing, and everybody save Jan Pier and two colored associates had on their holiday clothes. Chris wore a clean shirt, white collar and red tie. It was his day off, but Jan, the newcomer, the boy of seventeen, with thick brown hair, and big brownish eyes, bent to his labors, side by side with negro lads, in tattered togs. Not a word did the Frenchman utter, nor a time lift his face, but slaved on and on, hour after hour, polishing shoes, and taking in nickels.
“Have a shine,” said Chris to me.
I mounted the stand. Jan Pier, without looking up, ran his rag across my shoe.
“Where are you from, young fellow?” I asked.
No answer; not even a grunt.
“Where, boy, is your home?”