There was no breakfast the next morning other than copious draughts of water from the tank in the station waiting-room. At least, there was none for the boys; Sam found an ancient crust of bread along the track and made the most of it. At a little after eight they parted, agreeing to meet uptown at noon so that should one or the other have earned any money they might eat. Wayne’s ill luck stayed with him and at a little after twelve he sought the corner near the post office and found June already on hand. June had the enormous sum of twenty cents, earned by carrying a drummer’s sample cases from store to store for a period of well over an hour, and it took the boys something less than two minutes to find a lunch-room and climb to a couple of stools. Wayne was for conserving half their fortune, but when June’s eyes rolled covetously at the good things displayed, and June earnestly assured him of his ability to earn more money that afternoon, Wayne recklessly consented to the spending of the whole amount. The fact that he was every bit as hungry as June had a good deal to do with his change of mind.

That lunch tasted awfully good. Also, as June remarked wistfully, it tasted “moreish.” But their money was exhausted and they parted again at the lunch-room door and went their separate ways. How many flights of stairs he climbed that afternoon, how many doors he opened, how many blocks of hard pavement he trod, Wayne didn’t know, but even Sam showed evidences of exhaustion when, at twilight, downhearted and despairing, boy and dog returned to the shed by the railroad track.

“I reckon,” Wayne confided, “you and I are hoodooed, Sam. Reckon there isn’t anything for us to do but just slink back home the best way we can, old chap.” And Sam, trotting along beside him, raised understanding eyes and wagged the stump of his tail sympathetically.

June was downcast and woe-begone and self-accusing. Not a cent had he accumulated since noon. Luck had fairly deserted him. Every offer of services had been refused and a big, red-faced man had chased him out of a butcher shop with upraised cleaver when June had tried to negotiate for “a little ol’ piece o’ meat.” Hunger again faced them, and, to make matters worse, they were homeless. Wayne slumped down on the wheelbarrow and studied the situation from all angles, while June kept a sharp and nervous watch for that troublesome policeman. At length Wayne arose with a look of settled determination on his face.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to eat, June. If we don’t we can’t look for work. Mr. Connor wants Sam and——”

June let out a wail. “You ain’ goin’ to sell Sam, Mas’ Wayne! Please don’ you do that! Why, I ain’ hungry scarcely at all yet! Why, I don’ reckon you got any right——”

“I’m not going to sell him,” interrupted Wayne impatiently, even indignantly. “I’m going to ask Mr. Connor to take him and let us have our meals until we can pay him and get Sam back. That’s fair, isn’t it? Sam won’t mind—much. He’ll be warm and have plenty to eat and—and all.”

“He ain’ goin’ to be happy,” replied June, shaking his head sorrowfully, “but I reckon he won’ mind a awful lot if you kind of explains to him jus’ how it is, Mas’ Wayne. But you reckon Mister Denny goin’ to do it?”

“I mean to ask him, anyway,” answered Wayne stoutly. “He can’t do any more than refuse. So come along before the place fills up.”

Fortunately they found the lunch-wagon empty save for the presence of Mr. Connor himself and one tattered individual consuming coffee and doughnuts at a far end of the counter. Denny was reading the evening paper under a light beside the glistening, sizzing coffee urn. “Hello, boys,” he greeted cordially. “And how’s the world using you these days? You wasn’t in this morning, was you?”

“No, sir,” answered Wayne. “I—could I speak to you a minute, Mr. Connor?”

“Sure.” Denny laid the paper down and followed Wayne out of earshot of the lone patron. “What is it, my boy?”

In a low voice Wayne confided their predicament and made his proposal. Denny was sympathetic, and interjected, “I want to know!”, “Think of that now!”, and similar remarks during the narrative, and when Wayne had finished turned instantly and slid two cups and saucers toward the coffee urn.

“Here,” he exclaimed, “you fellers put this down before you do any more jabbering. There’s the sugar forninst you, Junius. What’ll you have to eat, now? Beef stew, corned beef hash, ham, eggs——” He ran an eye down the placard on the wall. “What’ll it be, boys?”

“Then you don’t mind doing it?” asked Wayne. “I’ll be awfully much obliged to you, Mr. Connor. I don’t know just when I can pay you back, but it won’t be very long, I reckon, and——”

“Ah, go on!” replied Denny gruffly. “Eat what you want. I don’t want your dog, kid!”

But Wayne was firm, even with the fragrant odour of that coffee in his nostrils, while June, already on a stool, was rolling longing eyes at the pies and cakes standing in rows on the shelves. “If you won’t take Sam for—for security,” said Wayne earnestly, “I won’t do it, sir. He won’t be any trouble and he doesn’t eat very much. I reckon you’d have to keep him tied up for a couple of days, because he might try to get away and follow me, but he’d soon get used to you, sir.”

Denny frowned thoughtfully from Wayne to Sam. “That’s all right,” he said at last, “only suppose I get fond of him, eh? I got an awful weak heart for dogs, kid. Look here, I tell you what. Sam can be security, do you see, and you can keep him just the same. Then if you don’t pay up, do you see, I’ll take him. Now what’s it going to be? That corned beef hash is pretty good tonight, and if you put a couple of eggs on it——”

“That’s silly,” interrupted Wayne. “Suppose we left town?”

“Oh, I’d have to risk that. You wouldn’t, though. Sure, I know you’re a straight lad.”

Wayne shook his head, sighed, and pushed the untasted coffee away. “Come on, June,” he said resolutely. “We’ve got to be travelling.”

“Huh?” queried June dismayedly. “Ain’ we goin’ to eat nothin’?”

“Not here. Mr. Connor doesn’t like our plan, June.”

“Don’ like it? How come he don’ like it? Look here, Mister Denny, that Sam dog’s the smartest, knowin’est dog as is, yes, sir! You can’ make no mistake if you takes him, sir. He’s got the cutest tricks——”

“I guess I’ve got to take him,” said Denny ruefully. “But I don’t see why you ain’t satisfied if I am. Oh, all right. Get on a stool there and feed your face, kid. You win. What about that hash now?”

Half an hour later, almost painfully replete with food and coffee, the boys left the Golden Star Lunch. Sam, tied with a cord behind the counter, sent wails of anguish after them, and Wayne hurried his steps and finally broke into a run. Only when a corner of a building along the track had shut off the lugubrious sounds did Wayne slow down again. After that they traversed a block in silence. Then it was June who spoke.

“Dogs is awful human folks, ain’ they?” he asked subduedly.

Wayne nodded but didn’t answer. Presently, though, he broke out defiantly with: “We’ve got to redeem him, June! He isn’t going to be happy there, Sam isn’t. He—he’s going to be mighty lonesome.” Then: “So am I,” he added gruffly.

“Yes, sir, I reckon he’s goin’ to be powerful mis’able at firs’,” agreed June. “We jus’ got to get to work an’ get him back, ain’t we, Mas’ Wayne?”

“We surely have,” agreed Wayne decidedly. “And I’m going to find a job tomorrow or—or bust!”

They stayed in the waiting-room, the object of deep suspicion on the part of the station policeman, who, fortunately, was not the officer who had ordered them away from the little shed, until the eleven-twelve express had pulled out. Then, when the baggage-man went through and put out most of the lights and the ticket seller closed and locked the door of his office and started for home, they exchanged the warmth of the waiting-room for the chill of outdoors and sleepily sought a place to spend the rest of the night. It wasn’t difficult. An empty box car on a sidetrack invited them with a half-opened door and they clambered in, closed the door behind them, and settled in a corner, drawing the horse blanket which June had carried around with him all evening over their tired bodies. They lay awake for a good while, talking, planning, wondering about Sam. At intervals an engine would roll past with clanking wheels, sometimes throwing red gleams from the open door of its fire box through the cracks of the box car. Later an express thundered by, shaking the earth. But that was after they had fallen asleep, and the roar only half awakened Wayne and disturbed June not a particle.

They awoke late the next morning, stiff-limbed but rested, and dropped from the car and went back to the station for a wash-up. Then came hot coffee and fried eggs and rolls at the lunch-wagon, but no reunion with Sam, for Denny explained that he had taken Sam home with him and that he was at that moment tied to a leg of the kitchen table.

“He howled a good deal during the night,” said Denny philosophically, “but I guess he didn’t keep anyone awake. He seemed a bit easier in his mind this morning, though, and the missis gave him a good breakfast and when I left he was licking the baby’s face. I guess he’s going to be all right in a day or two, but if the kid gets fond of him and I get fond of him——” Denny shook his head. “You haven’t changed your mind about selling him, have you?”

Wayne said no, and the proprietor of the lunch-wagon sighed. “Well, I was only thinking maybe that would make it a lot easier for all hands. But I won’t be urging you, kid. He’s a nice little dog and he sure is fond of you. Any time you want to see him you go around to the house and tell the missis who you are, see? No. 28 Grove Street’s the place. Ring the second bell. Well, so long, fellers. Good luck!”

Perhaps it was Denny’s wish that influenced Fortune that day, for when the two met at noon June proudly displayed two quarters and Wayne was happy over the possibility of securing work in a livery stable. “He said I was to come back in the morning,” explained Wayne as they sought the little lunch-room that they had patronised the previous day. “I reckon he means to take me, June. Wouldn’t that be great?”

“It surely would, Mas’ Wayne. What-all he want you to do?”

“Drive a carriage, one of the closed carriages that take passengers from the station. That’s something I can do, June, drive!”

“Yes, sir, you surely can drive. But that ain’ scarcely fit work for a gen’leman like you is, Mas’ Wayne.”

“I reckon what you do doesn’t matter much, June,” replied Wayne. “I reckon you can be a gentleman and drive a carriage, too. Anyway, I’d rather be earning some money. Just being a gentleman doesn’t get you anything as far as I can see.”

June shook his head at that but didn’t dispute it. He had something on his mind, and as soon as they were seated at the lunch-counter he broached it. “We got to fin’ a place to live, ain’ we, Mas’ Wayne?” he began. Wayne agreed, and June went on. “Yes, sir. Then let me tell you.” What he told amounted to this. His search for the illusive two-bit piece had taken him farther afield than usual and he had plodded to the outskirts of the town where there was a stamping works and a dyehouse and a few other small factories. His journey had brought him no recompense in money but he had discovered their future domicile. It was, he explained, an old street car which had at some time been pulled out into a meadow beyond the factories. “I reckon it was a horse car, like they used to have in Sleepersville, Mas’ Wayne, before the trolleys done come. Mos’ of the windows is knocked out, but we could easy board ’em up. An’ one of the doors don’ shut tight. But it’s got a long seat on both its sides an’ we could sleep fine on them seats. An’ there’s a little old stove at one end that someone done left there, an’ a stovepipe astickin’ out through the roof. I ask a man at the tin factory an’ he say no one ain’ live in it for a long time. An’ there’s a branch close by it, too; mighty nice tastin’ water, Mas’ Wayne; an’ some trees an’ no one to ask you no questions, an’ everythin’!”

“That sounds great, June,” said Wayne eagerly. “How far is it?”

“Must be a good two miles, I reckon. You go down this away and you bear over yonder-like an’ you follow the railroad right straight till you come to it.”

“It must be near where we got put off the train the other night,” said Wayne.

“No, sir, ’tain’, it’s in the other direction; other side of town.”

“Oh, that’s right. Well, now look here, June. We’ve got thirty cents left and that’s enough to keep us going until tomorrow, and I’m pretty sure to get that job in the morning. Why don’t we go out there now and have a look at the place?”

“Yes, sir, that’s what I was thinkin’. We could find some boards, maybe, an’ fix up them windows, an’ get some wood for a fire——”

“We’d better take that blanket out, though, in case we decided to stay there, June. There wouldn’t be any use coming back to town, would there?”

June looked dubious. “How about some supper?” he asked.

“I forgot that. But, look here, if there’s a stove there——”

“Yes, sir! Get us some coffee an’ bread——”

“And cook our own supper!” concluded Wayne triumphantly.

“Ain’ that fine? You take this yere money, Mas’ Wayne, an’ buy them things, an’ I’ll run back an’ fetch that blanket.” June grinned from ear to ear, displaying a wealth of glistening white teeth.

“You’re sure no one owns that car, though, June? We don’t want to get settled down there and then be put out the way they put us out of the little shed.”

“Huh, ain’ no police ever gets aroun’ there, I reckon,” answered June. “Man said it didn’ belong to no one, too.”

“All right. You get the blanket and I’ll buy what I can and meet you at the post office in fifteen minutes or so.”

June disappeared, and Wayne paid the two cheques and set out to find a grocery store. When he had completed his purchasing just one lonesome nickel remained in his pocket, but he had acquired a modest amount of cheap coffee, five cents’ worth of butter, a loaf of bread, a can of condensed milk and some sugar. Five minutes later they were footing it down the main street of Medfield, Wayne bearing the provisions and June the horse blanket which was a load in itself. It seemed that June had not underestimated the distance a particle, nor the difficulties of travel, for after they had traversed the poorer part of town their road stopped abruptly and they were forced to take to the railroad track and, since trains were coming and going frequently, make their way along by the little path on the side of the embankment. Coal yards, lumber yards, a foundry, vacant lots heaped with cinders and rubbish, and, at last, the open country, dotted here and there with small factories which, possibly because of lower land values, had been set up on the outskirts of town. June explained that he had found his way there in the morning by the road, but that the road was “way over yonder an’ a heap longer.” Presently he pointed out the stamping works, or tin factory, as he called it, and then directed Wayne’s gaze further and to the right.

“See that bunch of trees, Mas’ Wayne? See somethin’ jus’ other side of ’em? That’s it, sir!”

“Oh! But it’s a long ways from town, June.”

“It’s a right smart walk, yes, sir, but the rent’s mighty cheap!” And June chuckled as he led the way down the embankment, through a fence and into a boggy meadow. Further away a sort of road wound in the direction of the stamping works, and toward this June proceeded. The road scarcely deserved the name, but it was drier than the meadow. It appeared to have been constructed of a mixture of broken bricks, ashes, and tin cuttings and the latter glowed in the afternoon sunlight like bits of gold. They left the road at the stamping works, through whose open windows came the hum and clash of machinery, skirted a huge pile of waste tin, and went on across the field, choosing their way cautiously since every low spot held water. By now the abandoned horse car stood before them in all its glory of weather-faded yellow paint, broken windows, rusted roof, and sagging platforms. At one end some two feet of stovepipe protruded at a rakish angle from the roof. Wayne looked, saw, and was dubious. But when June asked proudly, “What you think of her, Mas’ Wayne?” he only said, “Fine, June!”