“Two.  He ain’t more’n two, that kid.”

“A nice little feller; you’re a cute un, ain’t ye, Shaver?”

Shaver nodded his head solemnly.  Having wearied of playing with the plate he gravely inspected the trio; found something amusing in Humpy’s bizarre countenance and laughed merrily.  Finding no response to his friendly overtures he appealed to Mary.

“Me wants me’s paw-widge,” he announced.

“Porridge,” interpreted Humpy with the air of one whose superior breeding makes him the proper arbiter of the speech of children of high social station.  Whereupon Shaver appreciatively poked his forefinger into Humpy’s surviving optic.

“I’ll see what I got,” muttered Mary.  “What ye used t’ eatin’ for supper, honey?”

The “honey” was a concession, and The Hopper, who was giving Shaver his watch to play with, bent a commendatory glance upon his spouse.

“Go on an’ tell us what ye done,” said Mary, doggedly busying herself about the stove.

The Hopper drew a chair to the table to be within reach of Shaver and related succinctly his day’s adventures.

“A dip!” moaned Mary as he described the seizure of the purse in the subway.

“You hadn’t no right to do ut, Hop!” bleated Humpy, who had tipped his chair against the wall and was sucking a cold pipe.  And then, professional curiosity overmastering his shocked conscience, he added:  “What’d she measure, Hop?”

The Hopper grinned.

“Flubbed!  Nothin’ but papers,” he confessed ruefully.

Mary and Humpy expressed their indignation and contempt in unequivocal terms, which they repeated after he told of the suspected “bull” whose presence on the local had so alarmed him.  A frank description of his flight and of his seizure of the roadster only added to their bitterness.

Humpy rose and paced the floor with the quick, short stride of men habituated to narrow spaces.  The Hopper watched the telltale step so disagreeably reminiscent of evil times and shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“Set down, Hump; ye make me nervous.  I got thinkin’ to do.”

“Ye’d better be quick about doin’ ut!” Humpy snorted with an oath.

“Cut the cussin’!” The Hopper admonished sharply.  Since his retirement to private life he had sought diligently to free his speech of profanity and thieves’ slang, as not only unbecoming in a respectable chicken farmer, but likely to arouse suspicions as to his origin and previous condition of servitude.  “Can’t ye see Shaver ain’t use to ut?  Shaver’s a little gent; he’s a reg’ler little juke; that’s wot Shaver is.”

“The more ’way up he is the worse fer us,” whimpered Humpy.  “It’s kidnapin’, that’s wot ut is!”

“That’s wot it ain’t,” declared The Hopper, averting a calamity to his watch, which Shaver was swinging by its chain.  “He was took by accident I tell ye!  I’m goin’ to take Shaver back to his ma—­ain’t I, Shaver?”