from those buttoned-in vest pockets. The time had come for his
annual exodus to the south.

A little boy, five or six years old, stood looking with covetous
eyes in a confectioner's window. In one small hand he held an empty
two-ounce vial; in the other he grasped tightly something flat and
round, with a shining milled edge. The scene presented a field of
operations commensurate to Chicken's talents and daring. After
sweeping the horizon to make sure that no official tug was cruising
near, he insidiously accosted his prey. The boy, having been early
taught by his household to regard altruistic advances with extreme
suspicion, received the overtures coldly.

Then Chicken knew that he must make one of those desperate,
nerve-shattering plunges into speculation that fortune sometimes
requires of those who would win her favour. Five cents was his
capital, and this he must risk against the chance of winning what
lay within the close grasp of the youngster's chubby hand. It was
a fearful lottery, Chicken knew. But he must accomplish his end by
strategy, since he had a wholesome terror of plundering infants
by force. Once, in a park, driven by hunger, he had committed
an onslaught upon a bottle of peptonized infant's food in the
possession of an occupant of a baby carriage. The outraged infant
had so promptly opened its mouth and pressed the button that
communicated with the welkin that help arrived, and Chicken did his
thirty days in a snug coop. Wherefore he was, as he said, "leary of
kids."

Beginning artfully to question the boy concerning his choice of
sweets, he gradually drew out the information he wanted. Mamma said