“Bread, too,” he said dryly; “and here’s another sonnet in the bottom of the box. Listen to this:
“What’s the good o’ butter
When it can’t be spread?
Hence I am your debtor
For half a loaf of bread.
“W. N.”
Chub burst into a laugh and the others joined him.
“He’s a joker, he is!” he gasped. “As far as I’m concerned he’s welcome. But I wouldn’t want him to visit us every day; we’d be bankrupt in a week!”
“But who is he?” puzzled Roy. “Any one know a ‘W. N.’?”
They all thought hard but without solving the riddle.
“Oh, he’s probably a tramp or—or something like that,” said Roy.
“Tramps don’t usually pay for what they take with verses,” Chub objected; “and his rhymes aren’t bad, you know, all except ‘butter,’ and ‘debtor’; that’s poetic license with a vengeance.”