When, in less than a week, however, Pollyanna brought home a small, ragged boy, and confidently claimed the same protection for him, Miss Polly did have something to say.  It happened after this wise.

On a pleasant Thursday morning Pollyanna had been taking calf’s-foot jelly again to Mrs. Snow.  Mrs. Snow and Pollyanna were the best of friends now.  Their friendship had started from the third visit Pollyanna had made, the one after she had told Mrs. Snow of the game.  Mrs. Snow herself was playing the game now, with Pollyanna.  To be sure, she was not playing it very well—­she had been sorry for everything for so long, that it was not easy to be glad for anything now.  But under Pollyanna’s cheery instructions and merry laughter at her mistakes, she was learning fast.  To-day, even, to Pollyanna’s huge delight, she had said that she was glad Pollyanna brought calf’s-foot jelly, because that was just what she had been wanting—­she did not know that Milly, at the front door, had told Pollyanna that the minister’s wife had already that day sent over a great bowlful of that same kind of jelly.

Pollyanna was thinking of this now when suddenly she saw the boy.

The boy was sitting in a disconsolate little heap by the roadside, whittling half-heartedly at a small stick.

“Hullo,” smiled Pollyanna, engagingly.

The boy glanced up, but he looked away again, at once.

“Hullo yourself,” he mumbled.

Pollyanna laughed.

“Now you don’t look as if you’d be glad even for calf’s-foot jelly,” she chuckled, stopping before him.

The boy stirred restlessly, gave her a surprised look, and began to whittle again at his stick, with the dull, broken-bladed knife in his hand.

Pollyanna hesitated, then dropped herself comfortably down on the grass near him.  In spite of Pollyanna’s brave assertion that she was “used to Ladies’ Aiders,” and “didn’t mind,” she had sighed at times for some companion of her own age.  Hence her determination to make the most of this one.

“My name’s Pollyanna Whittier,” she began pleasantly.  “What’s yours?”

Again the boy stirred restlessly.  He even almost got to his feet.  But he settled back.

“Jimmy Bean,” he grunted with ungracious indifference.

“Good!  Now we’re introduced.  I’m glad you did your part—­some folks don’t, you know.  I live at Miss Polly Harrington’s house.  Where do you live?”

“Nowhere.”

“Nowhere!  Why, you can’t do that—­everybody lives somewhere,” asserted Pollyanna.

“Well, I don’t—­just now.  I’m huntin’ up a new place.”

“Oh!  Where is it?”

The boy regarded her with scornful eyes.

“Silly!  As if I’d be a-huntin’ for it—­if I knew!”

Pollyanna tossed her head a little.  This was not a nice boy, and she did not like to be called “silly.”  Still, he was somebody besides—­old folks.  “Where did you live—­before?” she queried.