The matron’s kindly eyes appraised the bold, manly young face a moment, then, with a certain leisurely grace, she stepped in between the seats and, seating herself, lugged her two small charges down beside her.

“I suppose, under the circumstances, an old woman like me can discard the conventionalities?” she remarked smilingly.

Jerry and Alice leered triumphantly at their victim.  “Now!” Jerry shrilled exactingly “tell us all about hoboes!”

“They do carry empty tomato-cans, don’t they?” pleaded Alice.

It was now their guardian’s turn to laugh at his dismay.  “You see what you’ve let yourself in for now?” she remarked.

“Seems I am up against it,” he admitted, with a rueful grin, “well! must make good somehow, I suppose?”

With an infinitely boyish gesture he tipped his fur cap to the back of his head and leaned forward with finger-tips compressed in approved story-telling fashion.

“Once upon a time!—­” a breathless “Yes-s”—­those two small faces reminded him much of terriers watching a rat-hole—­“there was a hobo.”  He thought hard.  “He was a very dirty old hobo—­he never used to wash his face.  He was walking along the road one day when he heard a little wee voice call out ‘Hey!’.  He looked down and he saw an empty tomato-can on a rubbish heap.  Tomato-cans used to be able to talk in those days and the hoboes were very good to them—­always used to drink out of them and carry them to save them from walking.  This can had a picture of its big red face on the outside.  ‘Give us a lift?’ said the can.  ‘Where to?’ said the old hobo.  ‘Back to California, where I came from,’ said the can.  ‘All right!’ said the old hobo, ‘I’m goin’ there, too.’  And he picked the can up and hung it round his neck and kept on walking till they came to a house.  The window of the house was open and they could see a big fat bottle on a little table.  ‘Ah!’ said the old hobo ’here’s an old friend of mine!—­he’s comin’ with us, too,’ And he shoved his arm through the window and put the bottle in his pocket.  By and by they came to a river—­’Hey!’ said the can, again—­’What’s up?’ said the old hobo—­’I’m dry,’ said the can—­’So am I,’ said the hobo; and he dipped the can in the water and gave it a very little drink.  ‘Hey!’ said the can, ‘give us a drop more!’—­’Wait a bit!’ said the old hobo, and he pulled the cork out of the bottle.  ’Don’t you pour any of that feller into me!’ said the can, ‘he’ll burn my inside out—­an’ yours—­if you pour him into me I’ll open my mouth where I’m soldered and let him run out, and you won’t be able to drink out of me any more.  Chuck him into the river!—­he’s no good.’

“‘You shut your mouth!’ said the old hobo, ’or I’ll chuck you into the river!’ And he poured some of the stuff out of the bottle into the can—­”

At this exciting point poor George halted for breath and mopped his forehead.  He felt fully as thirsty as the tomato-can.  But the children were upon him, clutching his scarlet tunic: