"Dad had jest a leetle money, left over from his last job," Jim replied. "Then we set traps an' ketched a few rabbits. I fished some, too. Reckon we managed tuh get along. Lots o' times, though, I was that hungry I cud 'a' et a raw turnip."
"You say your father worked—was he a farm hand?" Max asked.
"Naw. Dad he's a travelin' printer, an' a good un, too, mistah. But he jest cain't stay ennywhere long. He's got gypsy blood, yuh see, and the travel bug he sez is in his body. So arter a little we gets out on the road again tuh see the sights."
"A traveling printer, eh?" remarked Bandy-legs; "say, that's kind of queer now. Reckon he'd strike a job if he dropped in on Mr. Robbins, the editor of the Carson Weekly Town Topics."
"What makes you say that?" demanded Max.
"Because I chanced to hear him say his typesetter was bound to leave him in the lurch, and he didn't know where he'd get a man by the first of the month," Bandy-legs replied promptly.
"There, do you hear that, Jim?" remarked Max.
"Yep. But reckons as how it ain't a-goin' tuh do we uns any good," answered the boy, dejectedly.
"Why not? By that time your dad's leg ought to be fairly well. And a couple of us boys could take him down to Carson soon in one of our boats."
Jim looked into the face of his kind friend while Max was speaking. There were tears in the little chap's eyes.