“Gee! That’s hard luck. I know how it is myself.”
“What? You? She’s too good a mother for you to be talking of hard luck.” In spite of weariness he smiled his incredulity.
“Mother, nothing! Mine is dead. She’s a good one though. And I’m in out of the wet now all right. But it was different when I was a San Francisco newsy, sleeping over bakery gratings.”
The other boy stared at Sydney enviously. “How did you come through so—so to the good? Chicken fixings and a gentleman’s sleeping outfit?” He eyed Sydney’s neat pajamas and slippered feet. “Gee! I’d be glad of as good as that for the day time.”
Sydney had set the lamp on a table near the other boy, and his pale face was sharply revealed. When Mrs. Schmitz, hastily dressed, entered, he looked up appealingly, but said nothing and dropped his head again on his breast.
“Mine goodness! You’re only a boy!” she exclaimed.
“Did you call the police?” Sydney asked.
“No policeman yet. I want to talk mit him first.” The captive stirred uneasily. “When have you something to eat?”