of a world hero, rivalling Cleopatra's famous barge which you will find
drifting around in the upper grade history books.

This was the only super six Hunkajunk touring car in Bridgeboro and it
belonged to the Bartletts who on this momentous night occupied its front
seat.

"Do look at that poor little fellow," said Mrs. Bartlett to her husband.
"Stop for just a second; _never_ saw such a pathetic picture in my
_life_!"

"Oh, what's the use stopping?" said Mr. Bartlett good-humoredly.

"Because I'm not going to the Lyric Theatre and have that poor little
hungry urchin haunting me all through the show. I don't believe he's had
_anything_ to eat all day. Just see how he looks in that window, it's
_pathetic_. Poor little fellow, he may be _starving_ for all we know.
I'm going to give him twenty-five cents; have you got the change?"

"You mean _I'm_ going to give it to him?" laughed Mr. Bartlett, stopping
the car.

"He's just _eating_ the things with his _eyes_." said Mrs. Bartlett
with womanly tenderness. "Look at that shabby sweater. Probably his
father is a drunken wretch."

"We'll be late for the show," said Mr. Bartlett.

"I don't care anything about the show," his wife retorted. "Do you
suppose I want to see The Bandit of Harrowing Highway or whatever it is?