The man whistled.
"I am living with Mr. Fithian, the curate," said the boy, with a sigh. "So my mother is having—a very good—time."
"She must be lonely."
The boy shook his head. "Oh, no!" said he. "She is much happier—without me."
"She's what?"
"Happier," the boy repeated, "without me. If she were not," he added, "I would not live with the curate."
The man laughed. It was in pity—not in merriment. "Well, say," he said, "when you see your mother, you tell her you met Jim Millette on the street. Will you? You tell her Jim's been—married. She'll understand. And I guess she'll be glad to know it. And, say, I guess she'll wonder who it's to. You tell her it's the little blonde of the Flying Tounsons. She'll know I ain't losing anything, anyhow, by standing in with that troupe. Tell her it's all right. You just tell her I said that everything was all right. Will you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You ain't never been to a show, have you?" the man continued. "I thought not. Well, say, you come along with me. It ain't late. We'll see the after-piece at the Burlesque. I'll take you in."
"I think," said the boy, "I had better not."