“I’m Charlie,” was the answer, “and I want my mamma.”
“Charlie; eh?” went on the manager. “Well, tell us your other name, and maybe we can find your mamma for you. What’s your last name?”
“Ain’t got none. I’m just Charlie, and I want my mamma!” was the answer.
“Just Charlie,” went on Mr. Ringold. “Well, I guess we’ll have to take you along with us, and we’ll try to find your mamma. Will you come with us, Charlie—er—well, ‘just’ Charlie?” and he smiled at the little chap.
“Call him Charlie House,” suggested Joe, with a smile. “We found him in a house, so call him Charlie House.”
“Good idea! We will!” decided the manager. “Will you come with us, Charlie House?”
“Yes, I’ll come with you,” answered the boy, as he threw off the bedclothes. “But my name is just Charlie.”
“Well, Just Charlie, or Charlie House, come along then. I expect you’re hungry, and we’ll feed you, and do all we can for you,” the manager said.
With the confidence of childhood, that knows no fear, the boy walked over the ceiling toward the rescuers. His clothing was in disorder, and his face was grimy from crying. Evidently, after the accident, he had cried himself to sleep. How he came to be alone in the overturned house could be but guessed.
“What’s that?” suddenly cried Blake.