"And since that time you've been in hiding, afraid to show yourselves in
any town?" Max continued, bent on knowing all the particulars, for he had
taken a decided interest in little Jim.

"Yep, we jest stuck tuh the woods," the other went on to say. "Dad, he
'membered hearin' some feller say as how these yer shells was wuth money,
if so be they cud be gathered in heaps. An' so yuh see we ben gatherin' 'em
right along."

"How'd you ever get feed?" asked Bandy-legs, whose mind always traveled to
this very important question.

"Dad had jest a leetle money, left over from his last job," Jim replied.
"Then we set traps an' ketched a few rabbits. I fished some, too. Reckon
we managed tuh get along. Lots o' times, though, I was that hungry I cud
'a' et a raw turnip."

"You say your father worked--was he a farm hand?" Max asked.

"Naw. Dad he's a travelin' printer, an' a good un, too, mistah. But he jest
cain't stay ennywhere long. He's got gypsy blood, yuh see, and the travel
bug he sez is in his body. So arter a little we gets out on the road again
tuh see the sights."

"A traveling printer, eh?" remarked Bandy-legs; "say, that's kind of queer
now. Reckon he'd strike a job if he dropped in on Mr. Robbins, the editor
of the _Carson Weekly Town Topics_."

"What makes you say that?" demanded Max.