“How does one get up?” he queried.
“Ladders. My father’s the manager. He lets me up sometimes.”
Prince Ferdinand William Otto stared with new awe at the boy. He found the fact much more remarkable than if the stranger had stated that his father was the King of England. Kings were, as you may say, directly in Prince Ferdinand William Otto’s line, but scenic railroads—
“I had thought of taking a journey on it,” he said, after a second’s reflection. “Do you think your father will sell me a ticket?”
“Billy Grimm will. I’ll go with you.”
The Prince rose with alacrity. Then he stopped. He must, of course, ask the strange boy to be his guest. But two tickets! Perhaps his allowance was not sufficient.
“I must see first how much it costs,” he said with dignity.
The other boy laughed. “Oh, gee! You come with me. It won’t cost anything,” he said, and led the way toward the towering lights.
For Bobby Thorpe to bring a small boy to ride with him was an everyday affair. Billy Grimm, at the ticket-window, hardly glanced at the boy who stood, trembling with anticipation, in the shadow of the booth.
The car came, and they climbed in. Perhaps, as they moved off, Prince Ferdinand William Otto had a qualm, occasioned by the remembrance of the English child who had met an untimely end; but if he did, he pluckily hid it.