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“That,” objected the clerk, “is a mongrel, I’m afraid. We are exhibiting him only out of deference to the widow of a country customer. I really shouldn’t care to recommend him. ”

“But he’s a sweet dog!” wailed Terry. “He’s the one I want!”

“Very well, then, my fine young gentleman, you get no dog at all, if you’re going to be so dog-gone COMMON!” raged Bessie, and she dragged the protesting Terry from the shop and hastened to the Hotel Picardie.

Bessie telephoned to those unseen powers that somewhere in the mysterious heart of every hotel regulate all human destinies, “Will you please send up a bell boy at once?”

“A bell boy? Oh, a page!”

“Well, whatever you want to call him. ”

There appeared at her suite a small boy whom she immediately longed to put on the stage. He was red-headed, freckle-faced, and he carried his snub nose high and cockily. He wore a skin-tight blue uniform with a row of brass buttons incredibly close together, and on the corner of his head rode an impudent pill-box cap of soldierly scarlet.

“Yes, madame?” He was obviously trying not to grin, in pure good fellowship, and when Terry grinned, the page’s cockney mug was wreathed with smiling.

“What is your name?” demanded Bessie.

“Bundock, madame. ”

“Heavens, you can’t call a person Bundock! What are you called at home?”

“Ginger, madame. ”

“Well, Ginger, this is my son, Master Terry Tait, the movie—the cinema star. ”

“Oh, madame, we were told below that Master Tait was ’ere, but I didn’t know I’d ‘ave the pleasure of seeing him! I’m familiar with Master Tait in the pictures, if I may say so, madame. ”

“All right. Play. ”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said play. Play! You are to play with Master Terry. ”

While Ginger looked dazed, she led the two boys into Terry’s bedroom, pointed an imperial forefinger at the new toys which she had brought home in the taxicab, and loftily left them.

“Gosh, I think it’s the limit that this playing business is wished onto you, too!” sighed Terry. “I guess she’ll want us to play with the electric train. Do you mind playing with an electric train?”

“I’ve never before ‘ad the opportunity, sir. ”

“Oh, golly, don’t call me ‘sir. ’”

“Very well, sir. ”

“What did you play with at home?”

“Well, sir—”

“Terry! Not sir!”

“Well, Master Terry, sir, I ‘ad a very nice cricket bat that my uncle ‘Ennery made for me, and a wagon made out of a Bass’ Ale box, sir, but it didn’t go so very well, sir—permit me!”

Terry had begun to open the case containing the electric train. Ginger sprang to help him. As he lifted out an electric locomotive, a dozen railroad carriages which represented the Flying Scotsman in miniature, a station on whose platform a tiny station master waved a flag when the set was connected with the electric-light socket, a tunnel through a conveniently portable mountain, and an even more miraculously portable bridge across a mighty tin river three feet long, Ginger muttered, “I’ll be jiggered. ”

“Do you like them?” marveled Terry.

“Oh! LIKE them, sir!”

“Well, you wouldn’t if they gave you one every birthday and Christmas, and you had to run ’em while a bunch of gin-hounds stood around and watched you and said, ‘isn’t he cute!’”

But Terry was impressed by the admiration of this obviously competent Ginger, this fortunate young man who was allowed to wear brass buttons and live in the joyous informality of kitchens and linen closets. Within fifteen minutes, unanimously elected president and general manager of the Hollywood & Pasadena R. R. , Terry was excitedly giving orders to the vice president and traffic manager; trains were darting through tunnels and intelligently stopping at stations; and once there was a delightful accident in which the train ran off the curve, to the anguish of sixteen unfortunate passengers.

“Gee, I do like it when I’ve got somebody to play with!” marveled Terry. “Say, I wish you could see my dog back home. He’s a dandy dog. His name is Corn Beef and Cabbage. ”

“Really, sir? What breed is ‘e?”

“Well, he’s kind of an Oklahoma wolfhound, my dad says. ”

“Oh, yes. Okaloma wolf’ound. I’ve ‘eard of that breed, sir. I say! Let’s put one of the passengers on the track, and then the train runs into ’im and we could ‘ave a funeral. ”