“You’ve been cutting up, I suppose.”
“No, it’s granny that’s been cuttin’ up. She’s at it all the time.”
“But you’ll catch it when you do go home, you know.”
“Maybe I won’t go home.”
It was not a street-boy that addressed her; but a boy with a comfortable home, who had a place in a store near by. He did not know, practically, what sort of a thing it was to wander about the streets, friendless and homeless; but it struck him vaguely that it must be decidedly uncomfortable. There was something in this strange creature—half boy in appearance—that excited his interest and curiosity, and he continued the conversation.
“What sort of a woman is your granny, as you call her?” he asked.
“She’s an awful old woman,” was the answer.
“I shouldn’t think you would like to speak so of your grandmother.”
“I don’t believe she is my grandmother. I only call her so.”
“What’s your name?”