“Cats like milk,” he said, dreamily, “and dogs like broo.”
Titus stared at him, then he said under his breath to his grandfather, “I-i-is he crazy?”
“No, he is repeating a Scotch jingle. ‘Broo’ is broth. He is terribly tired. Child,” he went on, “would you like me to read you the menu?”
“Please, sir,” he said, shyly, and with tired grace he handed the Judge the bit of cardboard with which he was playing.
The Judge elevated his eyebrows, put on his eyeglasses, and took the menu from him.
“Oysters, sir,” said the child, seriously, when the Judge had run over the list, “bouillon, and Democrat-Republican ice cream.”
Democrat-Republican ice cream was a specialty of this same first-class restaurant, and Titus, hearing this poverty-stricken child show familiarity with its merits, snickered aloud in his amusement.
His grandfather gave him a warning glance, but the child had not heard him. He was wearily looking about the pretty room with an air that said, “I have seen all this before.” Then, while waiting for their orders to be filled, he quietly dropped to sleep.
Meanwhile the Judge and Titus studied his appearance.
“Do you see,” said the Judge, “that though his face and hands are dirty his wrists are clean. He is only dirty outside. Look at his ragged little shirt cuffs. They are quite white—and how nicely his coat is darned.”