That they didn’t travel absolutely due north was only because the track chose to lead more westerly. By the time the sun was really in sight they had covered the better part of a half-mile and had caught a glimpse of a good-sized town in the distance. Tall chimneys and a spire or two pointed upward above a smoky haze. They crossed a big bridge beneath which flowed a broad and sluggish river, and had to flatten themselves against the parapet, Sam held tightly in Wayne’s arms, while a long freight train pounded past them on the single line of track. Beyond the bridge a “Yard Limit” sign met them, and the rails branched and switches stood up here and there like sentries and a roundhouse was near at hand. But they found their first habitation before that in a tiny white cottage set below the embankment, its gate facing a rambling clay road, rutted and pitted, that disappeared under a bridge. There was a path worn down the bank to the road, and Wayne and June and Sam descended it. A trail of smoke arose from the chimney of the house straight into the morning sunlight and suggested that the occupants were up and about.

Wayne’s knock on the door was answered by a tall, thin, slatternly woman who scowled questioningly.

“Good morning, ma’am,” began Wayne. “Could you give us a cup of coffee, please? We’ve been——”

“Get out of my yard,” was the prompt response. “I don’t feed tramps!”

“We aren’t tramps, ma’am. We’ll pay for the coffee——”

“And steal the doormat! I know your sort!” There was no doormat in sight, but Wayne didn’t notice the fact. “Go on now before I call my man to you.” The door slammed shut.

Wayne viewed June in surprise and the negro boy shook his head helplessly. “She surely is a powerful disgrumpled lady, Mas’ Wayne! Yes, sir! Reckon we better move along.”

“Maybe she isn’t well,” said Wayne, as they left the inhospitable dwelling behind and again climbed to the track. “Just the same, she didn’t have any right to call us tramps, did she? I suppose we’d better keep on to the town, June. It isn’t much farther.”

So they went on, past sidings laden with long lines of freight cars, past locomotives sizzling idly, past a crossing where eight burnished rails, aglow in the sunlight, crossed their path, under a big signal tower, their eyes very busy and their stomachs, since they had not eaten since early the preceding afternoon, very empty. A long freight shed was reached, and as they passed it one of the many doors slid slowly open and a brawny man stood revealed against the dimness beyond. He stretched his arms, yawned, caught sight of the passers and stood there, framed in the square opening, staring interestedly. Wayne stopped.

“Howdy,” he said. “Can you tell me where I can get something to eat, sir?”

“Sure! Cross over back of the yellow building and you’ll see a lunch-wagon. Maybe you’re looking for the hotel, though?”

Wayne shook his head. “I reckon a lunch-wagon’s good enough. What is this place, please?”

“Medfield, son. Aren’t lost, are you?”

“No, sir. What—what state are we in?”

“Pennsylvania. What state might you be looking for, son?”

“New York. Is it very far?”

“Second state on the right,” laughed the man. “What part of it are you aiming for?”

“New York City, I reckon. How far would that be?”

“About a hundred and fifty miles.”

Wayne sighed. “I thought we were nearer than that. Thank you, sir.”

“Say, hold on! Where’d you come from, anyway?”

Wayne pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Back there a ways,” he answered vaguely.

“Tramping it?”

“Yes, sir, some. Rode on the cars, too.”

The big man in the doorway winked down at him. “When they didn’t see you, eh? You look like a smart kid. What are you beating your way around the country for? Why don’t you get a job and go to work?”

“I’m looking for work,” answered Wayne eagerly. “Know where I can find some?”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you won’t have to look very far, son, if you really want a job. The trouble with your sort is that you don’t want to work. How far south do you come from?”

“Georgia, sir. How’d you know?”

“How’d I know!” laughed the man. “That’s a good one! What’s Friday’s name?”

“What, sir?” asked Wayne, puzzled.

The man nodded at Wayne’s companion. “What’s his name? Abraham Lincoln White?”

“June,” answered Wayne, a trifle stiffly, beginning to suspect that the man was laughing at him.

“June, eh? Say, he got North about three months too soon, didn’t he? Where’d you get the alligator hound? Don’t you ever feed him anything?”

Wayne moved away, followed by his retinue, but the man in the door was blind to offended dignity. “All right, son!” he called after them. “Good luck! Tell Denny that Jim Mason sent you and that he’s to give you a good feed.”

Wayne found the lunch-wagon without difficulty, but it didn’t seem to him that it deserved the name of wagon for it was set on a brick foundation in a weed-grown piece of land under the shadow of the big yellow factory and looked as though it had been there for many years. Still, there might be wheels hidden behind the bricks, he reflected. The words “Golden Star Lunch” were painted on the front. They climbed the steps and seated themselves on stools, while Sam searched famishedly about the floor for stray crumbs. The proprietor was a short, chunky youth with light hair slicked down close and a generous supply of the biggest and reddest freckles Wayne had ever seen. He observed June doubtfully.

“We don’t generally feed niggers here,” he said. “You two fellers together?”

“Yes,” answered Wayne. “If you don’t want to serve him we’ll get out.” He started to slide off the stool.

“Oh, well, never mind,” said the white-aproned youth. “The rush is over now. What’ll you have?”

“Coffee and two ham sandwiches, please.”

“Mas’ Wayne,” said June, “I’d rather have a piece of that sweet-potato pie yonder, please, sir.”

“That ain’t sweet-potato pie,” laughed the proprietor. “That’s squash, Snowball.”

“Please, sir, Mister, don’t call me out of my name,” begged June earnestly. “My name’s Junius.”

“All right, Junius.” The proprietor of the lunch-wagon grinned at Wayne and winked, but Wayne only frowned.

“You’ll have a sandwich, June,” he said. “Pie isn’t good for you. Two ham sandwiches, please.”

“All right, sir.”

June watched wistfully while the knife slipped through the end of the ham, and at last hunger got the better of manners. “Mister Denny, sir, would you please, sir, just bear down a little heavier on that fat meat?” he requested.

“Sure, you can have all the fat you want. How’d you know my name, though?”

Wayne answered for him. “A man at the freight shed directed us.”

“Yes, sir, and he said we was to tell you to give us a mighty good feed, Mister Denny,” added June. “But I reckon you-all goin’ to do that anyway, ain’ you?”

The proprietor laughed as he covered two slices of buttered bread with generous slices of ham. “That’s right, Snow—I mean Junius,” he responded. “If that ain’t enough you come back. Want something for your dog?”

“Thanks, I’ll give him some of my sandwich,” said Wayne, trying not to look impatient.

“You don’t need to.” The man scooped up some trimmings from the ham on the blade of the broad knife, dumped them on a slice of bread and leaned over the counter. “Here you are, Bingo. Catch!” Sam caught as much as he could and it disappeared as though by magic. After that he licked up the few scraps that had got away from him, wagged his tail delightedly, and gazed inquiringly and invitingly up again. “Say, he’s a smart dog, ain’t he?” said the man. “What’s his name?”

“Sam. Are those sandwiches ready, please?”

“Huh? Gee, didn’t I serve you yet? What do you know about that? Coffee, you said, didn’t you? Here you are.” He went back to an appraisal of the dog while Wayne and June, side by side, drank deep draughts of the hot coffee and bit huge mouthfuls from the delicious sandwiches. “Guess some more breakfast wouldn’t bust him,” said the proprietor, cutting off another slice of bread and buttering it liberally. “Can he do any tricks?”

“A few,” replied Wayne rather inarticulately by reason of having his mouth occupied by other things than words. “Sit up, Sam, and ask for it.”

Sam sat up, a trifle unsteadily, and barked three shrill barks. The man laughed. “Good boy! Here you are, then!” The piece of bread disappeared instantly. “Say, he’s sure hungry! What kind of a dog is he?”

“Reckon he’s just dog,” answered Wayne. “He don’t boast of his family much, Sam don’t, but he’s a good old chap.”

“Man over yonder at the railroad called him a alligator hound,” said June resentfully. “That’s the best dog in Colquitt County, Mister Denny. Yes, sir!”

“Where’s that, Junius?”

“Colquitt? That’s where we lives at when we’re to home. Colquitt County’s the finest——”

“Shut up, June. Don’t talk so much,” said Wayne. “Sam, stand up and march for the gentleman. Come on! Forward! March!”

Sam removed his appealing gaze from the countenance of “Mister Denny,” sighed—you could actually hear that sigh!—reared himself on his slender hind legs and stepped stiffly down the length of the floor and back again.

“Halt!” commanded Wayne, and Sam halted so suddenly that he almost went over backward. “Salute!” Sam’s right paw flopped up and down in a sketchy salute. “Fall out!” Sam came down on all-fours with alacrity, barked his relief and again took up his station under the good-natured “Mr. Denny.” The latter applauded warmly.

“Some dog you’ve got there, kid!” he declared. “What’ll you take for him?”

“I wouldn’t sell him,” answered Wayne, washing down the last of his sandwich with the final mouthful of coffee.

“Give you ten dollars,” said the man.

Wayne shook his head with decision.

“Fifteen? Well, any time you do want to sell him, Mister, you give me first chance, will you? He’s going to have some more breakfast for that stunt.”

“Mas’ Wayne,” said June softly, “I ain’ never eat any of that squash pie, an’ it surely does look powerful handsome, don’ it?”

“You still hungry?” frowned Wayne.

“I ain’ downright hungry,” answered June wistfully, “but I—I surely would act awful kind to a piece of that pie!”

“All right,” said Wayne. “How much is pie, sir?”

“Five cents. Want some?”

“Please. A slice of the squash.”

The proprietor, too busy with Sam to have heard the exchange, set the pie in front of Wayne, and the latter pushed it along to June.

“Did you say two pieces?” asked the man, poising his knife.

“No, thank you.”

June looked uncertainly from the tempting yellow triangle on the plate before him to Wayne and back again. “Ain’ you-all goin’ to have no pie?” he asked. Wayne shook his head. June laid down the fork and sniffed doubtfully. “What kind of pie you say this is, Mister Denny?” he asked.

“Huh? Squash pie.”

“Uh-huh. I reckon I don’ care for it, thanky, sir. It don’ smell like I thought it would.”

“Don’t be a fool!” whispered Wayne. “I don’t want any.”

“Say you don’? I ain’ believin’ it, though. Please, Mas’ Wayne, you have a half of it. It’s a powerful big piece of pie.”

“Lots more here,” said the proprietor. “Want another piece?”

“No, thanks,” answered Wayne. “I—maybe I’ll take a bite of his.”

The man’s reply to this was a quick slash of his knife and a second section of the squash pie slid across the counter. “My treat,” he said. “Try it. It’s good pie.”

Wayne hesitated. “I don’t think I want any,” he muttered. “I’m not hungry.”

“You eat it if you don’t want me to get mad at you,” said the other, levelling the knife at him sternly. “If you can’t eat it all give it to Sam. I’ll bet you he likes pie, eh, Sammy?”

Wayne smiled and, to June’s vast relief, ate. Perhaps he wasn’t hungry and perhaps it was mere politeness that caused him to consume every last crumb, but he had the appearance of one in thorough enjoyment of his task. When both plates were cleaned up Wayne dug a hand into a pocket.

“How much do we owe you, please?” he asked.

“Twenty cents. The pie was on me.”

“I’d rather—rather——” Wayne’s remark dwindled to silence and he began an anxious search of all his pockets, a proceeding that brought a look of suspicion into the good-natured face of the man behind the counter.

“Lost your money?” asked the latter with a trace of sarcasm.

Wayne nodded silently. “I reckon I must have,” he muttered, turning out one pocket after another and assembling the contents on the counter; the tattered time-table, a toothbrush, a pair of stockings, two handkerchiefs, a knife, a pencil, some string, and two-cent stamp vastly the worse for having laid crumpled up in a vest pocket for many weeks. “It—it’s gone,” said Wayne blankly. “I had nearly four dollars last night, didn’t I, June?”

“Yes, sir, you certainly did, Mas’ Wayne, ’cause I seen it. Where you reckon you lost it?”

“I don’t know,” answered the other boy miserably. “It was in this pocket. I reckon it must have come out in the freight car.”

The proprietor of the lunch wagon frowned. It was an old game to him, but there was something apparently genuine in the troubled expressions of both boys and he was almost inclined to accept the story. At all events, it was only twenty cents, and he was good-hearted and the two youngsters looked rather down on their luck. “Well, never mind,” he said carelessly. “You can pay me some other time, kids.”

But Wayne shook his head. “You—you haven’t any money, have you, June?” he faltered. June shook his head sadly.

“I didn’t have but two bits, Mas’ Wayne, and I went an’ spent that long time ago.”

“You see,” said Wayne, turning to the proprietor, “we don’t live here. We’re just—just passing through on our way to New York, and so we couldn’t very well pay you later.” He looked dubiously at the array of property before him. “I reckon there ain’t anything there worth twenty cents, is there?”

“Not to me, I guess.”

“Then—then you’ll just have to keep Sam until we can bring the money,” said Wayne desperately. “I reckon we can earn it somewhere. Will you please to do that, sir?”

The man looked covetously at the dog, but shook his head. “Shucks,” he answered, “he’d only be unhappy. And so would you, I guess. You run along, fellers. It’s all right. I guess you’ll pay me when you can, eh? Only—say, now, honest, kid, did you really have that four dollars, or are you just stringing me?”

Wayne flushed but met the man’s gaze squarely. “I had it,” he replied simply. “You haven’t any call to think I’m lying.”

“All right! I believe you. Now, look here, do you really want to earn a half-dollar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever washed windows?”

Wayne shook his head. “No, but I reckon I could do it.”

“Well, these windows need washing pretty badly. Generally I do it myself, but I’d rather take a lickin’. There’s eight of ’em and it ought to be worth five cents a window. That’s forty cents, but we’ll call it fifty. What do you say?”

“I’ll do them, thanks, and mighty glad to,” answered Wayne eagerly.

“Huh!” ejaculated June. “Go on away from here, Mas’ Wayne. You ain’ never washed no window in your life. White man, point me out to water and rags and let me to it. Mas’ Wayne ain’ never done no work like that an’ there ain’ no call for him to do any.” June paused and looked at the windows. “Mister Denny, them’s pretty big windows an’ they certainly is dirty, ain’ they?”

“What’s the matter with you? Ain’t fifty cents enough?”

“Well, sir,” answered June slowly, “it is an’ it ain’. Takin’ into estimation the size of them windows an’ the ’mount of washin’ required, sir, it seems like you might throw in two more cups of that yere coffee, sir!”

“Junius, you’re all right!” laughed the man, turning to the gleaming coffee urn. “It’s a bargain. Drink your coffee and then get to work. If you do a good job I’ll throw in a sandwich when you’re through!”