If one is tired enough such luxuries as beds and blankets may be dispensed with. Wayne and June slept more uninterruptedly that night than for many nights past. Toward morning they were conscious of the cold, for Wayne’s coat and an old gunny-sack discovered in a corner of the shed were not sufficient to more than cover their feet and legs. Sam, curled up in Wayne’s arms, doubtless fared better than the boys. When morning came they were stiff and achy and were glad enough to get up at the first signs of sunrise and move around. The want of a place to wash resulted in the discovery of a veritable haven of warmth and rest, for Wayne, peering about from the front of the shed, descried the railroad station only a few blocks down the track, and toward that they made their way. They found the waiting-room door unlocked and warmth and comfort inside. After washing up they settled themselves on a bench removed from the sight of the ticket window and fairly luxuriated in the warmth. June fell asleep again and snored so loudly that Wayne had to arouse him for fear that someone would hear him and drive them out. Wayne himself didn’t actually slumber, but he leaned back in a half-doze that was almost as restful as sleep, and Sam, restraining his desire to investigate these new surroundings, presently slept, too.

It was hunger that finally aroused them to action. The clock on the wall told them that it was almost half-past seven, and they left the waiting-room and passed out again into the chill of the March morning. But the sun was shining strongly now and there was a spring softness in the air that made June whistle gaily as they made their way back up the railroad in search of “Mister Denny’s” lunch-wagon. There they had some steaming hot coffee, and some crisp rolls and butter and, since there was still a nickel in the exchequer, three bananas which they consumed outside. To be sure, that left them penniless, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter so much this morning. There was something in the spring-like air that gave them courage and confidence. Besides, whatever happened, they had a home, such as it was, in the old shed. Presently they again set forth on their search for employment, agreeing to meet at five o’clock.

But again it was June who prospered and Wayne who returned empty-handed. June proudly displayed forty cents in dimes and nickels which he had earned in as many capacities as there were coins in his hand. Not only had he earned that forty cents, but he had dined sumptuously on a pork chop, having traded a quarter of an hour of his time and labour for that delicacy at a little restaurant. For his part, Wayne had gone dinnerless and was thoroughly discouraged. Even the tattered but still useful horse blanket which June had picked up outside a flour mill across the town could not cheer Wayne’s spirits.

“Reckon,” said June, spreading the blanket out proudly, “someone done lose that as didn’t mean to, Mas’ Wayne, ’cause it’s a powerful nice blanket, ain’ it?” Wayne listlessly agreed and June dropped it through the window which was their means of ingress and egress. “It’s goin’ to keep us fine an’ warm tonight, that little ol’ blanket is. Tomorrow I’m goin’ to find me a bed to go with it! You hungry enough to eat, Mas’ Wayne?”

Wayne shook his head. “I don’t want any supper,” he replied.

“Don’ want no supper! How come? What-all you have for your dinner, please?”

“I had enough,” answered Wayne. “You go ahead and have your supper, June.”

June snorted. “Mighty likely, ain’ it?” he demanded scathingly. “Reckon you can see this nigger eatin’ all by his lonely. No, sir, Mas’ Wayne, you-all’s goin’ to eat, too. If you don’ there ain’ goin’ to be no supper for nobody.”

“I tell you I’m not hungry,” replied Wayne irritably. “Besides, if you must know, I haven’t any money.”

“Say you ain’? You’ve got forty cents. How come that ain’ enough money to buy us some supper?”

“That’s your money, not mine,” said Wayne bitterly. “You earned it. I didn’t. I’m not going to live off you. You go get your supper and let me alone.”

“I earned it for all of us,” said June earnestly. “Reckon you paid a heap of money to buy victuals for me, Mas’ Wayne, all the way up from Sleepersville, didn’ you, sir?”

“That’s different,” muttered the other.

“How come it’s different? Please, sir, don’ you be uppity an’ proud. Ever since we was little fellers together, Mas’ Wayne, you done give me money; two bits here, an’ two bits there, an’ a dime yonder. How come I can’ pay it back to you?”

“A gentleman doesn’t—doesn’t do that,” returned Wayne stubbornly.

“You mean ’cause you’re white an’ I’m black?”

“Never mind what I mean. Anyway, I’m not hungry, so shut up.”

June obeyed, scuffling his shoes in the cinders underfoot and staring sadly at the sunset glow beyond the factory roofs to the west. Sam had found a very old and very dry bone somewhere and was pretending that it was quite new and delicious. He even growled once or twice, although there was no other dog in sight, perhaps to convince himself that he really had discovered a prize. Minutes passed and the western sky faded from crimson to yellow, and from yellow to gray. Finally Wayne stole a look at June.

“You’d better be going,” he growled.

“I ain’ aimin’ to go, Mas’ Wayne,” replied June earnestly. “Reckon I ain’ no hungrier than you is.”

“I don’t care whether you are or not,” declared the other angrily. “I say you’re to go and get some supper. Now you go.”

June shook his head. “Not without you come along,” he answered.

“You do as I tell you, June!”

“I’m wishin’ to, Mas’ Wayne, but I jus’ can’, sir.”

“Well, you just will! If you don’t start right along I’ll whale you, Junius!”

“Yes, sir, Mas’ Wayne, you can do that, but you-all can’ make me eat no supper. That’s somethin’ you can’ do.”

“If you can’t do as I tell you you’ll have to get out. You think just because you’re up North here you can do as you please. Well, I’ll show you. Are you going to obey me?”

“Please, sir, Mas’ Wayne, I’m goin’ to do everythin’ just like you tell me, savin’ that! I jus’ can’ go an’ eat anythin’ ’less you come along. I’m powerful sorry, hones’ to goodness, Mas’ Wayne, but you can see how ’tis.”

Wayne muttered something that sounded far from complimentary, and relapsed into dignified silence. The white stars came out one by one and the chill of evening made itself felt. Sam tired of pretending and begged to be taken up by Wayne, but Wayne brushed his paws aside. June sat motionless on his end of the old wheelbarrow and made no sound. Now, when you haven’t had anything to eat since early morning and have tramped miles over city pavements pride is all very well but it doesn’t butter any parsnips. Besides, Wayne realised just as clearly as you or I, or almost as clearly, that he was making a mountain of a molehill and that if he wasn’t so tired and discouraged he wouldn’t have hesitated to share June’s earnings. But pride, even false pride, is always stubborn, and it was well toward dark before Wayne shrugged his shoulders impatiently and jumped up from his seat.

“Oh, come on then, you stubborn mule,” he muttered. “If you won’t eat without me I reckon I’ll have to go along.”

He stalked off into the twilight and June and Sam followed, the former with a little shuffling caper unseen of Wayne and the latter with an ecstatic bark.

In the morning, when they had again breakfasted none too grandly, at the lunch-wagon, they were once more reduced to penury. Not only that, but both boys were discovering that forty or fifty cents a day, while sufficient to keep them from starvation, was not enough to satisfy two healthy appetites. Neither made mention of his discovery, but Wayne, again encouraged by food and rest, told himself resolutely that today must end the matter, that he would find something to do before he returned to the little shed, and June as resolutely determined to try harder and earn more money. What Sam’s thoughts were I don’t know. Sam didn’t seem to care much what happened so long as he could be with Wayne.

But all the good resolutions in the world and all the grim determination sometimes fail, and again Fortune turned a deaf ear to Wayne’s petitions. The nearest he came to landing a place was when a foreman at a rambling old factory at the far end of the town offered him a job packing spools if he could produce a union card. Wayne not only couldn’t produce such a thing but didn’t know what it was until the foreman impatiently explained, assuring him that there was no use in his seeking work in the factories unless he first became a member of a union. This was something of an exaggeration, as Wayne ultimately learned, but for the present it was sufficient to just about double his load of discouragement. He confined his efforts to shops and places of retail business after that but had no luck, and returned to the shed when the street lights began to appear, hungry and tired and ready to give up, to find that Fate was not yet through with him for that day.

For once June had fared almost as sadly as Wayne and only a solitary ten-cent piece was the result of his efforts. June was apologetic and would have recited his experiences at length, but Wayne didn’t have the heart to listen. “It doesn’t matter, June,” he said listlessly. “It wasn’t your fault. At that, you made ten cents more than I did. I reckon there’s only one thing to do now.”

“What’s that, Mas’ Wayne?”

“Buy a stamp with two cents of that ten and write back to Mr. Higgins for money to get home with. I reckon we’re just about at the end of the halter, June.”

“Don’ you believe that, Mas’ Wayne,” replied June stoutly. “An’ don’ you go writin’ no letter to that old skinflint stepdaddy of yours. Jus’ you give me another chance an’ see what I goin’ to bring home tomorrow! We’ll go get us a cup of coffee an’ then we’ll feel a heap perkier, yes, sir! An’ then we’ll jus’ go to sleep an’ get up in the mornin’ feelin’ fine an’ start right out an’ lan’ somethin’. Don’ you go gettin’ discouraged, Mas’ Wayne. We’s goin’ to be livin’ on the fat of the lan’ in two-three days!”

“There’s another town, bigger than this, June, about twenty miles from here. Maybe we’d better mosey along over there and see if things are any better. Seems to me I’ve been in most every place in this town asking for work now, and I’m beginning to forget which ones I’ve been to and which ones I haven’t.”

“Well, I don’ know,” answered June. “Sometimes it seems like it’s the wisest thing to stay right to home an’ not go projeckin’ ’roun’. We’s got a comfor’ble place to sleep here, Mas’ Wayne, an’ there ain’ no tellin’ what would happen to us if we went totin’ off to this other place, is there? ’Spose you an’ me goes an’ has that coffee first. Seems like I can always think a heap better after meals.”

“A cup of coffee isn’t much of a meal,” objected Wayne, “but I reckon it’s going to taste mighty good to me. We’ll go to the lunch-wagon for it. You get better coffee there than the other places we’ve been to.”

The lunch-wagon was crowded and they had to wait for several minutes before they could get waited on by Mr. Connor. He always seemed glad to see them and still took a great interest in Sam, but usually there were too many others there to allow of much conversation. Tonight he only nodded and smiled as he passed the cups to them, and they retired to the side of the wagon and drank the beverage gratefully, wishing there was more of it and trying hard to keep their gaze from the viands displayed beyond the long counter. Fortunately for Sam, he had already become acquainted with a number of the regular patrons of the Golden Star Lunch and was almost always certain of food. The men who took their meals there, workers in the nearby factories and railroad hands, were for the most part rough but kindly and many crusts of bread and scraps of meat went to Sam, who, duly grateful and willing to show his few tricks in return for the favours bestowed on him, allowed no familiarities. When anyone other than Wayne or June tried to pat him he backed away, politely but firmly.

The coffee did the boys good, although it felt awfully lonesome where they put it, and they returned to the shed in a more cheerful frame of mind. It was still too early to go to bed, but the station was several blocks away and there was no nearer place to resort to, and so presently they stretched themselves out on the floor of the shed, drew the horse blanket over them, and were soon asleep. How much later it was when Wayne awoke with a blinding glare of light in his eyes there was no way of telling.

For a moment he blinked dazedly, his brain still fogged with sleep. Then he sat up, and Sam, disturbed, sniffed and broke into shrill barking. June, a sounder sleeper, still snored when a gruff voice came from the direction of the light which Wayne now realised was thrown by a lantern.

“What are you doing in here? Come on now! Get out!” said the voice.

Wayne scrambled to his feet, commanding Sam to be still, and June groaned and snorted himself awake. The light was thrown aside and, framed in the window, Wayne could see the form of a policeman.

“We aren’t doing any harm, sir,” said the boy. “Just sleeping here.”

“Sleeping here, eh? Haven’t you got a home? How many are there of you?”

“Two, sir. We are on our way to New York and we didn’t have any other place to sleep, so we came in here.”

“Hoboes, eh? Well, you’d better beat it before the lieutenant lamps you. He’s down on you fellows this spring.”

“We aren’t hoboes, sir. We’re looking for work.”

“Yes, I know,” was the ironical response. “Well, come on out of it.”

“But we haven’t any other place, sir. We aren’t doing any harm and——”

“It doesn’t matter about that. What’s your name and where’d you come from?” Wayne told him and the officer grunted. Then: “Get the other fellow up,” he ordered, and, when June had crawled sleepily to his feet, “Hello, a nig, eh? Travelling together, are you?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Wayne. “We’re going to New York, but our money gave out and we’ve been trying to earn enough to go on with.”

“That straight goods?”

“Yes, sir, it’s the truth, really.”

“Well, all right. Stay where you are tonight, kids, but you’ll have to get out tomorrow. This is private property and I can’t have you trespassing. You’d be welcome to stay as long as you liked if I had the say, but I haven’t. So don’t let me find you here tomorrow night or I’ll have to run you in. Good night, boys.”

The lantern’s glare vanished and the policeman’s steps went crunching off on the cinders.