"Twelve year old."
"Twelve! I thought you were sixteen, at least."
A faint look of gratification crossed the boy's face, but he only said stoically: "Twelve year's my age."
"What do you do in the wintertime when there isn't much odd-jobbing? How do you get along then?"
"I git along awright. Sometimes I git help. Off a lady here, a frien' o' mine."
"What lady? What's her name?"
"Name o' Miss Mary. Miss Carstair, some calls her. I git money and clo's off her. I'd 'a' had some bum winters, hadn't ben for her."
There was a pause, and then Varney said: "What's your name, my boy?"
Again the boy hesitated. "Tommy," he said presently.
"Tommy what?"