“That’s true,” he answered.  “I don’t like boys much better than I do girls, but some are all right, and—­you seem to be one of ’em.”

“Much obliged,” laughed Trot.  “You aren’t so bad, either, an’ if we don’t both turn out worse than we seem, we ought to be friends.”

He nodded rather absently and tossed a pebble into the water.  “Been to town?” he asked.

“Yes.  Mother wanted some yarn from the store.  She’s knittin’ Cap’n Bill a stocking.”

“Doesn’t he wear but one?”

“That’s all.  Cap’n Bill has one wooden leg,” she explained.  “That’s why he don’t sailor any more.  I’m glad of it, ’cause Cap’n Bill knows ev’rything.  I s’pose he knows more than anyone else in all the world.”

“Whew!” said the boy.  “That’s taking a good deal for granted.  A one-legged sailor can’t know much.”

“Why not?” asked Trot a little indignantly.  “Folks don’t learn things with their legs, do they?”

“No, but they can’t get around without legs to find out things.”

“Cap’n Bill got ’round lively ’nough once, when he had two meat legs,” she said.  “He’s sailed to most ev’ry country on the earth, an’ found out all that the people in ’em knew and a lot besides.  He was shipwrecked on a desert island once, and another time a cannibal king tried to boil him for dinner, an’ one day a shark chased him seven leagues through the water, an’—­”

“What’s a league?” asked the boy.

“It’s a—­a distance, like a mile is.  But a league isn’t a mile, you know.”

“What is it, then?”

“You’ll have to ask Cap’n Bill.  He knows ever’thing.”

“Not ever’thing,” objected the boy.  “I know some things Cap’n Bill don’t know.”

“If you do, you’re pretty smart,” said Trot.

“No, I’m not smart.  Some folks think I’m stupid.  I guess I am.  But I know a few things that were wonderful.  Cap’n Bill may know more’n I do—­a good deal more—­but I’m sure he can’t know the same things.  Say, what’s your name?”

“I’m Mayre Griffith, but ever’body calls me ‘Trot.’  I’s a nickname I got when I was a baby, ‘cause I trotted so fast when I walked, an’ it seems to stick.  What’s your name?”

“Button-Bright.”

“How did it happen?”

“How did what happen?”

“Such a funny name.”

The boy scowled a little.  “Just like your own nickname happened,” he answered gloomily.  “My father once said I was bright as a button, an’ it made ever’body laugh.  So they always call me Button-Bright.”

“What’s your real name?” she inquired.

“Saladin Paracelsus de Lambertine Evagne von Smith.”

“Guess I’ll call you Button-Bright,” said Trot, sighing.  “The only other thing would be ‘Salad,’ an’ I don’t like salads.  Don’t you find it hard work to ’member all of your name?”

“I don’t try to,” he said.  “There’s a lot more of it, but I’ve forgotten the rest.”