The first person that I met in St Louis, that I dared to speak
with, was a boy somewhat younger than myself. I asked him his
name, and in broken English he replied that his name was Henry
Becket.

Seeing that he was French, I began to talk to him in his own
language, which was my mother tongue, and so we were quickly
friends. I told him that my parents were both dead and that I had
no home, and he being of a kind-hearted, sympathetic nature,
invited me to go home with him, which invitation I immediately
accepted.

Henry Becket's mother was a widow and they were very poor, but
they were lovingly kind to me.

I told Mrs. Becket of my troubles with Mr. Drake's old negro
woman; how much abuse I had suffered at her hands and the widow
sympathized with me deeply. She also told me that I was welcome to
stay with them until such time as I was able to get employment. So
I remained with the Beckets three days, during all of which time I
tried hard to get work, but without success.

On the morning of the fourth day she asked me if I had tried any
of the hotels for work. I told her that I had not, so she advised
me to go to some of them in my rounds.

It had not occurred to me that a boy could find anything to do
about a hotel, but I took Mrs. Becket's advice, and that morning
called at the American hotel, which was the first one I came to.