The name sounded strange to himself, for he had always been called Tom; but his street-life was over. He had entered upon a new career, and it was fitting that he should resume the name to which he had a rightful claim.
"That's a good name," said Bessie, approvingly. "Would you like to know mine?"
"I know it already—it's Bessie Benton."
"Oh, you heard me use it. Do you like it?"
"Tip-top."
"That's another of your boy-words."
"Isn't it good?"
"I like it well enough. I'm not Miss Wiggins."
I am not going to inflict on the reader a full account of all that was said on the journey by Bessie and her young protector. They chatted upon a variety of topics, Tom taking care not to be too communicative touching his street experiences. He wanted to stand well with Bessie, and was afraid that she would not be quite so pleased and social with him if she should learn that he had been a knight of the blacking-brush.
It was early evening when the train reached Cincinnati.