In fact, with every touch I added to the picture, that kind soul gave me something also.  She made up a lunch for me to carry away.  She put in many boiled eggs, pepper and salt, and other things, and a big apple.  She provided me with three pairs of thick red woollen socks.  She gave me clean handkerchiefs and other things which I have since forgotten.  And all the time she cooked more and more and I ate more and more.  I gorged like a savage; but then it was a far cry across the Sierras on a blind baggage, and I knew not when nor where I should find my next meal.  And all the while, like a death’s-head at the feast, silent and motionless, her own unfortunate boy sat and stared at me across the table.  I suppose I represented to him mystery, and romance, and adventure—­all that was denied the feeble flicker of life that was in him.  And yet I could not forbear, once or twice, from wondering if he saw through me down to the bottom of my mendacious heart.

“But where are you going to?” she asked me.

“Salt Lake City,” said I.  “I have a sister there—­a married sister.”  (I debated if I should make a Mormon out of her, and decided against it.) “Her husband is a plumber—­a contracting plumber.”

Now I knew that contracting plumbers were usually credited with making lots of money.  But I had spoken.  It was up to me to qualify.

“They would have sent me the money for my fare if I had asked for it,” I explained, “but they have had sickness and business troubles.  His partner cheated him.  And so I wouldn’t write for the money.  I knew I could make my way there somehow.  I let them think I had enough to get me to Salt Lake City.  She is lovely, and so kind.  She was always kind to me.  I guess I’ll go into the shop and learn the trade.  She has two daughters.  They are younger than I. One is only a baby.”

Of all my married sisters that I have distributed among the cities of the United States, that Salt Lake sister is my favorite.  She is quite real, too.  When I tell about her, I can see her, and her two little girls, and her plumber husband.  She is a large, motherly woman, just verging on beneficent stoutness—­the kind, you know, that always cooks nice things and that never gets angry.  She is a brunette.  Her husband is a quiet, easy-going fellow.  Sometimes I almost know him quite well.  And who knows but some day I may meet him?  If that aged sailorman could remember Billy Harper, I see no reason why I should not some day meet the husband of my sister who lives in Salt Lake City.

On the other hand, I have a feeling of certitude within me that I shall never meet in the flesh my many parents and grandparents—­you see, I invariably killed them off.  Heart disease was my favorite way of getting rid of my mother, though on occasion I did away with her by means of consumption, pneumonia, and typhoid fever.  It is true, as the Winnipeg policemen will attest, that I have grandparents living in England; but that was a long time ago and it is a fair assumption that they are dead by now.  At any rate, they have never written to me.