"
"Nothing in there but atmosphere, sonny. You can get that out of any
box. Suppose I can hit that little black point, Weldon?"
"Not if I know it," Weldon said coolly, as he tossed his own tin to
the boy and, seizing that of Carew, threw it after its mate. "Let
the little coon have his lick, Carew. It's not pretty to watch him
go at it, tongue first; but we can't all be Chesterfields. What is
your name, sonny?"
The boy paused with suspended tongue, while he rolled the great
whites of his eyes up at the questioner. Then, the whites still
turned upon Weldon, he took one more hasty lick.
"Kruger Roberts," he said then, detaching himself for an instant
from his treasure. "Oh, I infer you like to sit on fences?" Weldon
said interrogatively.
"Ya, Boss."
"Which side do you intend to come down?"
"Me no come down," the boy answered nonchalantly, more from inherent
indifference than from any comprehension of Weldon's allegory.
"All right. Stop where you are. Meanwhile, I think I should call you
Jamboree."
"Ya, Boss." The face vanished from sight behind the tilted tin. Then
it reappeared, and a huge finger pointed to the remaining tins.
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