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He’d got an awful lot to say for himself; about dicky-birds and puff- puffs, and dogs, and trouser-pockets and rot of that sort, and didn’t seem to care much whether I listened or no. Then, just when I thought he had about run dry and was getting sleepy, he rounded on me with–

“Tell me a story.”

“Me? I don’t know any stories.”

“Oh yes; a funny one, please.”

“I tell you I don’t know any–what about?”

“`The Three Bears.'”

“I don’t know anything about `three bears,'” said I.

“Do! do!! do!!!” he said, beginning to get crusty.

So I did my best. He kept saying I was all wrong, and putting me right; he might just as well have told it himself. I told him so. But he took no notice, and went on badgering me for more stories.

I can tell you I was getting sick of it!

When I made up a story for him to laugh at, he looked so solemn and said–

“Not that; a funny one.”

And when I told him a fairy tale, he snapped up and said he didn’t like it.

It ended in my telling him the “The Three Bears” over and over again. It was about the sixty-fifth time of telling that we got to Vauxhall, and had to give up tickets.

“Now, young ‘un, look out for your governor when we get in–I don’t know him, you know.”

The young ass didn’t know what I meant.

“Look out for daddy, then,” I said.

He promptly stuck his head out of the window and said the ticket- collector was daddy; then that the porter was; then that a sweep on the platform was.

It wasn’t very hopeful for spotting the real daddy at Waterloo. I told him to shut up and wait till we got there.

When we got there, I stuck him up at the window, as large as life, for his governor to see. There were a lot of people about; but I can tell you I was pretty queer when no one owned him. We hung about a quarter of an hour, asking everybody we met if they’d come to meet a kid, and watching them all go off in cabs, till we had the platform to ourselves.

“Here’s a go, kid!” said I; “daddy’s not come.”

“I ‘spex,” says he, “when the middling-size bear found his porridge eaten up, he wondered who it was.”

“Shut up about the bears,” said I. “What about your gov.–your daddy? Where does he live?”

“In London town,” said he, as soon as I could knock those bears out of his head.

“Whereabouts? What street?”

“London town.”

“Do you mean to say–look here, what’s your name? Tommy what?”

“It’s Tommy,” he said.

“I know that. Is it Tommy Jones, or Tommy Robinson, or what?”

“It’s Tommy,” he repeated. “My name’s Tommy.” Here was a nice go! Stranded with a kid that didn’t know his own name, or where his governor lived! The worst of it was, I had to stop in London that night as there was no train on. My pater had written to get a room for me at the Euston Hotel, so that I should be on the spot for starting home first train in the morning.

I was regularly stumped, I can tell you. It never turned a feather on the kid, his governor not turning up; and I couldn’t make the idiot understand anything. He hung on to me singing and saying, “Who’s been tasting my porridge and eaten it all up?” or else cheeking the porters, or else trying to whistle to make the trains go.

I thought I’d better leave word with the station-master where I’d gone, in case any one turned up; and then there was nothing for it but to take a cab across to the hotel.

The kid was no end festive to have a ride in the cab. It would have been in a little better taste if he’d held his tongue, and shown a little regret for the jolly mess he’d let me into. But, bless you, he didn’t care two straws.