He looks twenty-one, but he's seventeen.
He thinks the world's rotten because he can't grow one of those fuzzy
little mustaches that the men are cultivating to match their hats.
He's down at the depot now, straightening out our baggage. Now I want
to say this before he gets here. He's been out with me just four days.
Those four days have been a revelation, an eye-opener, and a series of
rude jolts. He used to think that his mother's job consisted of
traveling in Pullmans, eating delicate viands turned out by the hotel
chefs, and strewing Featherloom Petticoats along the path. I gave him
plenty of money, and he got into the habit of looking lightly upon
anything more trifling than a five-dollar bill. He's changing his mind
by great leaps. I'm prepared to spend the night in the coal cellar if
you'll just fix him up--not too comfortably. It'll be a great lesson
for him. There he is now. Just coming in. Fuzzy coat and hat and
English stick. Hist! As they say on the stage."
The boy crossed the crowded lobby.
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