"Do you live here?" asked Tommy. "It doesn't seem like much of a place."

"No," said the boy, "it isn't much of a place, but I live here."

"What sort of tools have you got in your bag? Who is your father?"

"My father is a carpenter," answered the boy.

Tommy gave a long, low whistle. "A carpenter! Why my father owns a
store, and we live in one of the best houses in town. Fairfield is the
name of my town."

The boy seemed neither to notice the whistle nor the brag; but, allowing
the bag to slip from his shoulders to the ground, stood, still smiling,
before Tommy.

Tommy, who somehow had forgotten his pain and thirst, felt embarrassed
for a moment. He never before had made that announcement without its
awakening at least a little sensation, even if it were no more than a
boast in return.

"This is a dull old town," he finally said. "Many jolly boys around?"

"A good many," answered the boy.

"Do you get any time to play? I suppose though, you don't - you have to
work most of the time," added Tommy, encouragingly.

"I work a good deal," said the boy. "I get time to play, however. I like
it."