“In what direction did you say that battery was pointed?”

“I didn’t say; but it was pointed up this way, of course.”

The man laughed outright.

“And so you followed in the direction of the deadly Southern shell and came north—­as a small grape-shot!”

“But, Mister, that was long ago.  They had their quarrel out long ago.  That’s the way we boys do:  fight it out and make friends again.  Don’t you do that way?”

“It’s a very good way to do,” said the man.  “And so you sell papers?”

“I sell papers to people in the park, Mister, and back up on the avenue.  Granny is particular.  I’m not a regular newsboy.”

“I heard you singing.  Does anybody teach you?”

“Granny.”

“And so your grandmother is your music teacher?”

It was the lad’s turn to laugh.

“Granny isn’t my grandmother; Granny is my mother.”

Toppling over in the dust of imagination went a gaunt granny image; in its place a much more vital being appeared just behind the form of the lad, guarding him even now while he spoke.

“And so your mother takes pupils?”

“Only me.”

“Has any one heard you sing?”

“Only she.”

It had become more and more the part of the man during this colloquy to smile; he felt repeatedly in the flank of his mind a jab of the comic spur.  Now he laughed at the lad’s deadly preparedness; business competition in New York had taught him that he who hesitates a moment is lost.  The boy seemed ready with his answers before he heard the man’s questions.

“Do you mind telling me your name?”

“My name is Ashby.  Ashby Truesdale.  We come from an old English family.  What is your name, and what kind of family do you come from, Mister?”

“And where do you live?”

The lad wheeled, and strode to the edge of the rock,—­the path along there is blasted out of solid rock,—­and looking downward, he pointed to the first row of buildings in the distant flats.

“We live down there.  You see that house in the middle of the block, the little old one between the two big ones?”

The man did not feel sure.

“Well, Mister, you see the statue of Washington and Lafayette?”

The man was certain he saw Washington and Lafayette.

“Well, from there you follow my finger along the row of houses till you come to the littlest, oldest, dingiest one.  You see it now, don’t you?  We live up under the roof.”

“What is the number?”

“It isn’t any number.  It’s half a number.  We live in the half that isn’t numbered; the other half gets the number.”

“And you take your music lessons in one half?”

“Why, yes, Mister.  Why not?”

“On a piano?”

“Why, yes, Mister; on my piano.”

“Oh, you have a piano, have you?”

“There isn’t any sound in about half the keys.  Granny says the time has come to rent a better one.  She has gone over to the art school to-day to pose to get the money.”