“Since a week ago last Friday. His mother paid one week’s board in advance; the other has not been paid.”
“Was he ill when he came?”
“No, sir, not what you’d call sick. He was getting better of typhoid, she said, and he’s picking up fine.”
“Will you tell me his mother’s name and address?”
“That’s the trouble,” the young woman said, knitting her brows. “She gave her name as Mrs. Wallace, and said she had no address. She was looking for a boarding-house in town. She said she worked in a department store, and couldn’t take care of the child properly, and he needed fresh air and milk. I had three children of my own, and one more didn’t make much difference in the work, but—I wish she would pay this week’s board.”
“Did she say what store it was?”
“No, sir, but all the boy’s clothes came from King’s. He has far too fine clothes for the country.”
There was a chorus of shouts and shrill yells from the front door, followed by the loud stamping of children’s feet and a throaty “whoa, whoa!” Into the room came a tandem team of two chubby youngsters, a boy and a girl, harnessed with a clothes-line, and driven by a laughing boy of about seven, in tan overalls and brass buttons. The small driver caught my attention at once: he was a beautiful child, and, although he showed traces of recent severe illness, his skin had now the clear transparency of health.
“Whoa, Flinders,” he shouted. “You’re goin’ to smash the trap.”
Mr. Jamieson coaxed him over by holding out a lead-pencil, striped blue and yellow.