Happy Jack smiled a mollified smile eight inches wide. “You is all right, beau,” said he. “An’ as fur as my bein’ a nigger’s concerned, I’ll admit my kerplection ain’t light.” He slapped his ham and brought down a foot on the platform. “Hyah, hyah!” he roared, “you bet dere ain’t no dam’ blond ’bout me!”
The infectious darky laugh started the others off, and brought matters to a common-sense footing.
The passenger agent took up the interrogation. Was the man the boy’s real father? Answer: “How’d I know? Dat’s der song he guv me.” Were there any relatives? Friends? Answer: “Naw!” Well, what did the boy propose to do? Answer, digging his toes into the boards: “Didn’t know—anyt’ing!” What was his name? “Jim.” Jim what? “Didn’t know. Sometimes der gun callt himself ‘Darragh,’ an’ sometimes ‘Mullen,’ an’ sometimes ‘Smit.’ Aggh! He callt himself the foist t’ing dat come to his tongue—he didn’t have no real name.”
The agent talked to him a bit more, winding up by saying kindly: “You’ve had a pretty rough time of it, Jimmy, and we’d all like to give you a lift—now, just say what you’d like to do, and maybe we can fix it.”
“I’d like to go along wid dat feller, ’f he’ll take me,” replied the boy, tossing a thumb toward Jim Felton. There was a becoming access of shyness in his manner; moreover, Felton had an increased interest in him when he knew they bore the same name—a sort of kinship, as it were.
“Well, it’s up to you, Mister—” said the passenger agent, with a smile.
“Felton,” said Jim. “I’m in. I’ll take the boy. Hard rustling down my way, but I guess we can make out somehow. Sure you want to go, kid?”
“Yessir!” very heartily.
“Done, then!”
Happy Jack snatched off his uniform cap, spat on a bill, and flapped it into the bottom thereof.