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They don't deliver no wires down here. I handles 'em sometimes for wut dere is in it." "Oh! Well, I won't fail to see that there is something in it for you this time. And do you make much money odd-jobbing?" "I git along awright. Summertimes I do. Wintertimes there ain't no odjobbin' much." "How old are you, my boy?" "Twelve year old." "Twelve! I thought you were sixteen, at least."
The boy turned his back to the rail and faced him impassively. In the brilliant sunshine, he looked singularly worn and wise. "I brung dem wires," he said courageously plying the cigar. "Any answer?" "I'll see, after a while," said Varney, hastily lighting a pipe as counter-irritant. "So you're the telegraph boy, are you?" "Nawser. Odjobbin' I do. Anythink as comes handy.
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