TAG; OR, THE CHIEN BOULE DOG
asked, and the conductor became confidential at once.
“He’s a little Frenchy,” he said, leaning over the end of the seat. “Been in some kind of a home for a year, poor kid, his ma’s dead, an’ his pa’s working in Noo York. He’s doin’ pretty well now, so he sent for the youngster. The sisters up at the Home give him an’ another kid in charge of the hired man back there an’ told him to write out these here tags an’ send ’em along. Let’s see your calling card, sonny—Got his Noo York address on it—huh! Jim’s fergot to put on his name—jest like him—but it’s Bateese—Bateese— Good Lord, if I ain’t fergot! What’s your name, sonny?”
“Bateese,” was the prompt reply.
“Bateese what?—go on —”
Bateese shook his head, smiled broadly and edged nearer Patty.
