"My name is Rick Dale," began Alaric, who did not feel that he could disclose his real identity under the circumstances, "and my home is in San Francisco; but it is closed now. My mother is dead. I don't know just where my father is, and I was left with some people whom I disliked so much that I just—" Here he hesitated, and Phil, noting his embarrassment, hastened to say:
"Never mind the particulars. I had no business to ask such questions, anyway."
"Well," continued Alaric, "the result of it all is that I am here looking for work. I had a job, but it didn't pay anything, and I lost it about two weeks ago. Now I am trying to find another."
"What kind of a job do you want?"
"Anything, so long as it is honest work that will provide food, clothing, and a place to sleep."
"In that case," said Phil, thoughtfully, "I don't know but what I can put you in the way of one, though—"
"It must be a job for two of us," interposed Alaric, "for I have a friend who is in the same fix as myself."
"I only wish I had known that in time to have him breakfast with us," said Phil; "but the job I am thinking of, if it can be had at all, will serve for two of you as well as for one. You see, it is this way. There is a Frenchman over at the hotel whose name is Filbert, and who—"
Just here both lads started at the sound of a shrill whistle announcing the hour of noon.
"I had no idea it was so late," explained Phil, "and I must run; for we leave here on the one-o'clock train."