"What does it read?"

"Be prepared!"

"Where from?" was the next question.

"Fox Patrol, Chicago."

"You must be pretty foxy," Jimmie laughed, "to get away off here."

The member of the Fox Patrol now made his way through the crowd and
extended a hand to Jimmie.

"You don't look as if it paid to be a Fox," laughed the latter.

The boy certainly did look like a tramp. He was a lad of about
sixteen, well formed as to figure and attractive as to feature, with
bright blue eyes, long, fair hair, and a complexion which would have
been perfect only for the grime upon it. He blushed as Jimmie
looked him over, and involuntarily turned his eyes down to his
ragged clothing and broken shoes.

"Forget that!" Jimmie cried, in a moment. "I didn't mean anything
by it. Where you stopping?"

The fact was that Jimmie suspected from the appearance of the lad
that he was hungry as well as ragged and dirty. He certainly looked
hungry. The boy hesitated before replying, his hands deep in his
trousers pockets, his eyes on the ground. Then a whimsical smile
came to his face and he looked Jimmie squarely in the face.