"Nice child--very nice child," observed an old gentleman, crossing
to the other side of the car and addressing the mother of the boy who
had just hit him in the eye with a wad of paper. "How old are you, my
son?"
"None of your business," replied the youngster, taking aim at another
passenger.
"Fine boy," smiled the old man, as the parent regarded her offspring
with pride. "A remarkably fine boy. What is your name, my son?"
"Puddin' Tame!" shouted the youngster, with a giggle at his own wit.
"I thought so," continued the old man, pleasantly. "If you had given
me three guesses at it, that would have been the first one I would
have struck on. Now, Puddin', you can blow those things pretty
straight, can't you?"
"You bet!" squealed the boy, delighted at the compliment. "See me
take that old fellow over there!"
"No, no!" exclaimed the old gentleman, hastily. "Try it on the old
woman I was sitting with. She has boys of her own, and she won't
mind."
"Can't you hit the lady for the gentleman, Johnny?" asked the fond
parent.
Johnny cleverly landed the pellet on the end of the old woman's nose.
But she did mind it, and rising in her wrath soared down on the small
boy like a hawk. She put him over the line, reversed him, ran him
backwards, till he didn't know which end of him was front, and
finally dropped him into the lap of the scared mother, with a
benediction whereof the purport was that she'd be back in a moment to
skin him alive.
"She didn't seem to like it, Puddin'," smiled the old gentleman,
softly. "She's a perfect stranger to me; but I understand she is the
matron of an Orphans' Home, and I thought she would like a little
fun; but I was mistaken."
And the old man smiled sweetly as he went back to his seat. He was
sorry for the poor little boy, but he couldn't help it.