“Who told you to come?” he inquired, with a guilty cunning twinkle in his gray eyes.
“Mama told me,” was the prompt answer.
Again the man chuckled, and, between the shame he felt for having betrayed the child and delight at the success of his perfidy, he grew quite red in the face. He took the autograph album and turned its stiff, ragged-edged leaves, glancing at the names.
“Ah, this is your mama’s book, is it?” he went on.
“Yeth it is,” said May.
“And I must write my name in it?”
“No, your—your——”
“Well what?”
“I don’t ’member.”
He took from his pocket a stylographic pen and dashed a picturesque sign manual across a page.