“I lost ’em on the back stairs, don’t yer know.  My father he got fightin’ mad when he was drunk, and pitched me down two flights of ’em, and my back was most clean broke in two, so I couldn’t git out o’ bed forever, till just now.”

“Why, poor child, who took care of you?”

“Mother she minded me when she warn’t out washin’.”

“And did she send you here to-day?”

“Well! however could she, bein’ as how she’s dead?  I s’posed you knowed that.  She died after I got well; she only waited for me to git up, anyhow.”

O God! these poor mothers! they bite back the cry of their pain, and fight death with love so long as they have a shred of strength for the battle!

“What’s your name, dear boy?”

“Patsy.”

“Patsy what?”

“Patsy nothin’! just only Patsy; that’s all of it.  The boys calls me ‘Humpty Dumpty’ and ‘Rags,’ but that’s sassy.”

“But all little boys have another name, Patsy.”

“Oh, I got another, if yer so dead set on it,—­it’s Dinnis,—­but Jim says ’t won’t wash; ’t ain’t no ‘count, and I wouldn’t tell yer nothin’ but a sure-pop name, and that’s Patsy.  Jim says lots of other fellers out to the ’sylum has Dinnis fur names, and they ain’t worth shucks, nuther.  Dinnis he must have had orful much boys, I guess.”

“Who is Jim?”

“Him and I’s brothers, kind o’ brothers, not sure ’nuff brothers.  Oh, I dunno how it is ’zactly,—­Jim’ll tell yer.  He dunno as I be, yer know, ’n he dunno but I be, ‘n he’s afeard to leave go o’ me for fear I be.  See?”

“Do you and Jim live together?”

“Yes, we live at Mis’ Kennett’s.  Jim swipes the grub; I build the fires’n help cook’n wipe dishes for Jim when I ain’t sick, ’n I mind Miss Kennett’s babies right along,—­she most allers has new ones, ’n she gives me my lunch for doin’ it.”

“Is Mrs. Kennett nice and kind?”

“O-h, yes; she’s orful busy, yer know, ’n won’t stand no foolin’.”

“Is there a Mr. Kennett?”

“Sometimes there is, ’n most allers there ain’t.”

My face by this time was an animated interrogation point.  My need of explanation must have been hopelessly evident, for he hastened to add footnotes to the original text.

“He’s allers out o’ work, yer know, ’n he don’t sleep ter home, ’n if yer want him yer have to hunt him up.  He’s real busy now, though,—­doin’ fine.”

“That’s good.  What does he do?”

“He marches with the workingmen’s percessions ’n holds banners.”

“I see.”  The Labor Problem and the Chinese Question were the great topics of interest in all grades of California society just then.  My mission in life was to keep the children of these marching and banner-holding laborers from going to destruction.

“And you haven’t any father, poor little man?”

“Yer bet yer life I don’t want no more father in mine.  He knocked me down them stairs, and then he went off in a ship, and I don’t go a cent on fathers!  Say, is this a ’zamination?”