“Oh, it’s an English street expression,” smiled the surgeon.  “I expect he’ll have dozens of queer sayings.”

“Never mind,” said the young lady; “he has a nice face, and his eyes lock terribly straight at one.  I think we’ll take him, father?”

Her voice rose in a question, but it took Buck just two seconds to know she need not have asked it.  The great surgeon would have taken an elephant if she had expressed a liking for it.

“Keep on the right side of her and you’ll stand in wid de old man,” whispered the boy next to him.

“Don’t yer t’ink I sees dat?” sneered Buck.  “Yer must t’ink I lef’ my h’yes in Lunnon.”  And the shrewd young street arab arose to his feet, touched his cap with his forefinger, and said: 

“H’all right, sir; I ’opes I’ll suit.”

That was the beginning of it, yet, notwithstanding Buck had made up his mind that whatever happened he would make himself “suit,” still he met with a serious discouragement the very next morning, when his unwilling ears overheard a conversation between the surgeon and the stableman.  The latter was saying: 

“I hope you will excuse me speaking, Doctor, but I think you’ve made a mistake getting this here green Barnardo boy to help with the horses.  They never do know nothin’, those English boys, and you can’t teach ’em.”

“Well,” hesitated the doctor, “we’ll have to give him a trial, I suppose.  Miss Connie took a fancy to him.”

“Oh, Miss Connie, was it?” repeated the stableman, in quite another tone.  “Then that settles it, sir.”  And it did.

“So I owes dis ’ere ’ome to ‘Miss Connie,’ does I?” remarked Buck to himself.  “Den if dis is so, I’s good for payin’ of her fer it.”  Only he pronounced “pay” “py.”

But it was a long two years before the boy got any chance to “py” her for her kindness, and when the chance did come, he would have given his sturdy young life to avert it.  By this time, much mixing with Canadians had blunted his London street-bred accent.  To be sure he occasionally slipped an “h,” or inserted one where it should not be, but he was fast swinging into line with the great young country he now called “home.”  He could eat Indian corn and maple syrup, he could skate, toboggan, and ply a paddle, he could handle a horse as well as Watkins, the stableman, who was heard on several occasions to remark that he could not get along without the boy.

In the holidays, when Miss Connie was home from school, Buck was frequently allowed to drive her, or sit in his cream and brown livery beside her while she drove herself.  These were always great occasions, for no refined feminine being had ever come into his life before.  If he ever had a mother—­which he often doubted—­he certainly had no recollection of her or her surroundings.  To be sure the women about the “Home” in far-off England were kind and good, but this slim Canadian girl was so different.  She looked like a flower, and he had never heard her speak a harsh, unlovely word in all those two years.  Once as he stood at the carriage door, the rug over his arm, waiting for Miss Connie to descend the steps for her afternoon drive, an impudent little “Canuck” jeered at him in passing.