“What is your name?” asked Starlight, as soon as he had dropped safely to the dry grass, and had stretched himself beside the little tumbler, who sat with his knees gathered close to him and his hands clasped round them.
“Flutters,” answered the boy.
“That's not your real name?”
“That's what they call me.”
“You mean the circus people?”
Flutters simply nodded “yes.” Somehow he did not seem at first inclined to be quite as communicative as Starlight would have wished.
“It must be fun to wear clothes like those,” he said, after a pause, eyeing his new friend from head to foot with evident admiration.
“Oh, it's kind of fun for a while, but there isn't much real fun. Everything's only kind of fun, and there isn't any fun at all about most things.”
Starlight couldn't quite agree with these sage remarks, although he had himself of late been seeing a great deal of the darker side of life.
“I guess you're not very well, Flutters,” he said, seriously; “or perhaps you're tired.”