Mrar begun to cry.
“We live at uncle Mozy’s,” says she. “They don’t want to give us away.”
The man laughed, and says: “Are you right sure?” But I hated to have her scared, so I told her the wheel couldn’t hurt her, nor him neither.
“I’ve seen the cars many a time,” I says, “and I’ve seen balloons, and read in the paper about things that went on three wheels, but this”—
“It’s a bicycle,” says he. “I’m a wheel-man.”
“That’s what I thought,” says I.
Then he wanted to know our names.
“Mine’s Steele Pedicord,” I says, “and this is my little sister Mrar.”
His eyes looked sharp at us and he says: