Marshall brought a platter of cold food to the boy, who rested the dish upon his knees and ate from it with keen appetite.
“Where do you come from?” asked Doctor John-Luis, when his caller stopped for breath. Mamouche turned a pair of big, soft, dark eyes upon his questioner.
“I come frum Cloutierville this mo’nin’. I been try to git to the twenty-fo’-mile ferry w’en de rain ketch me.”
“What were you going to do at the twenty-four-mile ferry?”
The boy gazed absently into the fire. “I don’ know w’at I was goin’ to do yonda to the twenty-fo’-mile ferry,” he said.
“Then you must be a tramp, to be wandering aimlessly about the country in that way!” exclaimed the doctor.
“No; I don’ b’lieve I’m a tramp, me.” Mamouche was wriggling his toes with enjoyment of the warmth and palatable food.
“Well, what’s your name?” continued Doctor John-Luis.
“My name it’s Mamouche.”
“‘Mamouche.’ Fiddlesticks! That’s no name.”