Jimmie looked from one to the other, his small eyes devoid of expression, his inscrutable thin face as innocent as that of a sleeping baby.
“Sit down, Jimmie,” said Halloran, “Miss Davies and I want to talk with you about George.”
Jimmie seated himself and waited respectfully, his thin legs dangling off the floor, his hands clasped meekly in his lap. He was always willing to be talked to—rather enjoyed it, in fact—was particularly fond of moral lectures; had a keen little mind somewhere behind his narrow forehead, and could bring himself to discuss moral questions with his lady teachers, showing all the symptoms of an eager water-lily striving upward from its dark bed toward the light of day. Miss Davies he understood perfectly and really liked, in a way. She was good—and why not? Who wouldn't be good with plenty to eat and wear, with fathers and mothers, and grand suburban homes with real trees about them (he had been taken out there once for some Fresh Air, on which occasion he had seen a cow for the first time in his life). But he was a little afraid of Halloran, and inclined to grow secretive in his presence. To sum him up, Jimmie was already launched upon a professional career—he sold score-cards at the baseball park—and he fully realized the importance of his place in life; even hoped some day to be a manager and walk out to the players' bench before the game in a checked suit, announce the battery of the day, and toss out the new ball from a capacious pocket, a new ball in a red box with a white seal around it.
“Now, Jimmie, do you know where he is?”
Jimmie shook his head.
“No, sir. I heard some one say he hadn't been around for a week.”
Halloran threw a quick glance at Miss Davies; but it was not too quick for Jimmie.
“He has run off, Jimmie, and we want to find him. It don't make any difference why he went. Anybody's likely to get into trouble now and then; and I'm not going to ask any questions. But if he has lost his job or got into trouble I think we could help him.”
