Two summers earlier he had travelled the same road, on a luxurious trip to the Coast.  The memory of its scenic splendor then, the easy-going stages from one sumptuous mountain resort to another, now made him feel slightly dismal and discontented with his present lot.  Eye-restful solace came however with the sight of the ever-nearing glorious sun-crowned peaks of the mighty “Rockies,” sharply silhouetted against the dazzling blue of the sky.

Children’s voices behind him suddenly broke in upon his reverie.

“That man!” said a small squeaking treble, “was a hobo.  He was sitting in that car in front with the hard seats an’ I went up to him an’ I said, ‘Hullo, Mister! why don’t you wash your face an’ shave it? we’ve all washed our faces this morning’ . . . .  We did, didn’t we, Alice?—­an’ washed Porkey’s too, an’ he said ’Hullo, Bo! wash my face?—­I don’t have to—­I might catch cold.’”

“But Jerry!” said another child’s voice, “I don’t think he could have been a real hobo, or he’d have had an empty tomato-can hanging around his neck on a string, like the pictures of ‘Weary Willie’ an’ ‘Tired Tim’ in the funny papers.”

Then ensued the sounds as of a juvenile scuffle and squawk.  Master Jerry apparently resented having his pet convictions treated in this “Doubting Thomas” fashion, for the next thing George heard him say, was: 

“Goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy! . . .  No! he hadn’t got a tomato-can, silly! but he’d got a big, fat bottle in his pocket an’ he pulled the cork out of it an’ sucked an’ I said ‘What have you got in your bottle?’ an’ he said ‘Cold tea’ but it didn’t smell a bit like cold tea.  There’s a Mounted Policeman sitting in that seat in front of us.  Let’s ask him.  Policemen always lock hoboes up in gaol an’ kick them in the stomach, like you see them in the pictures.”

The next instant there came a pattering of little feet and two small figures scrambled into the vacant seat in front of Redmond.  His gaze fell on a diminutive, red-headed, inquisitive-faced urchin of some eight years, and a small, gray-eyed, wistful-looking maiden, perhaps about a year younger, with hair that matched the boy’s in colour.  Under one dimpled arm she clutched tightly to her—­upside-down—­a fat, squirming fox-terrier puppy.  Hand-in-hand, in an attitude of breathless, speculative awe, they sat there bolt upright, like two small gophers; watching intently the face of the uniformed representative of the Law, as if seeking some reassuring sign.

It came presently—­a kind, boyish, friendly smile that gained the confidence of their little hearts at once.

“Hullo, nippers!” he said cheerily.

“Hullo!” the two small trebles responded.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Jerry!”

“Jerry what?”

An uneasy wriggle and a moment’s hesitation then—­“Jeremiah!” came a small—­rather sulky—­voice.

Breathing audibly in her intense eagerness the little girl now came to the rescue.