“Well,” he said, good-naturedly overlooking the slight rudeness of my query, “I live there as much as I live anywhere. About half the year sometimes. I've got a sort of a shanty there. You must come and see it some day.”
“But do you live anywhere else as well?” I went on, feeling the forbidden tide of questions surging up within me.
“O yes, all over the place,” was his vague reply. “And I've got a diggings somewhere off Piccadilly.”
“Where's what?” said he. “Oh, Piccadilly! It's in London.”
“Have you a large garden?” I asked; “and how many pigs have you got?”
“I've no garden at all,” he replied sadly, “and they don't allow me to keep pigs, though I'd like to, awfully. It's very hard.”
“But what do you do all day, then,” I cried, “and where do you go and play, without any garden, or pigs, or things?”
“When I want to play,” he said gravely, “I have to go and play in the street; but it's poor fun, I grant you. There's a goat, though, not far off, and sometimes I talk to him when I'm feeling lonely; but he's very proud.”
“Goats are proud,” I admitted. “There's one lives near here, and if you say anything to him at all, he hits you in the wind with his head. You know what it feels like when a fellow hits you in the wind?”