"Mamma! Mamma!" came the plaintive call from one of the bedrooms.
"It is someone crying!" decided the manager.
"And in here, too," added Blake, as he made a turn in the direction of the sound.
Again it came—a pitiful cry:
"Mamma! I want you!"
"Where are you? Who are you?" asked Mr. Ringold, as he and the others followed Blake.
And there, sitting up amid a pile of bedclothes in a corner, hitherto unobserved, was a small boy, about eight years old. He had evidently just awakened, and was starting to cry. He rubbed his sleepy eyes.
"Well, my little man, who are you?" asked the manager, kindly.
"I'm Charlie," was the answer, "and I want my mamma."
"Charlie; eh?" went on the manager. "Well, tell us your other name, and maybe we can find your mamma for you. What's your last name?"
"Ain't got none. I'm just Charlie, and I want my mamma!" was the answer.
"Just Charlie," went on Mr. Ringold. "Well, I guess we'll have to take you along with us, and we'll try to find your mamma. Will you come with us, Charlie—er—well, 'just' Charlie?" and he smiled at the little chap.
