with wide braid, a lantern on his arm, coal dust smudging the back of his neck, and two fingers felicitously gone from his left hand.
I coughed, to recall him from visions. He looked up at me, a little shyly, debating but why should it not be told?
"Uncle Maje—when I grow up, I'm going off to be a brakeman."
"I know it," I said quietly.
"Won't it be just fine!"
"It's the very finest life in all the world. I hoped for it myself once, but I was disappointed."
He gave me a quick look of sympathy.
"Wouldn't they let you?"
"Well, they were afraid I'd be hurt—only I knew I wouldn't be—anything to speak of—a couple of fingers, perhaps—"
"Off the left hand," he suggested understandingly.
"Of course,—off the left hand."
"That brakeman on No. 3 has got two off his left hand," was the final comment.
We retraced our steps; but there was yet another butterfly of my namesake's. He led us to a by-path that followed the river bank up to the bridge, running far ahead of us. When we reached him he was seated, dumb with yearning, before a newly painted sign,
"Go to Budd's for an Up-to-Date 25 ct. Dinner."
