The young gentleman when first seen was sitting on the doorstep staring disconsolately at the ground. Rain from the eaves dripped steadily down upon the rusty thatch of his head, but he noticed it not. There are some thoughts which are more searing than mere physical discomfort. As the Vagabond approached the better to divine the cause of all this anguish the young gentleman looked up.

"You're just in time," he said.

Inasmuch as the Vagabond was an unbidden, unexpected and unknown guest, the saluation was startling in its directness.

"For what," he asked.

"To help," and, in elaboration he pointed to the damp ground on which were strewn some three pounds of Cinnamon balls. "They spilled, you see," he added, much as though God, despairing at the inadequacy of rain had flung down a handful of Cinnamon balls in the interests of the earthly brethren.

"Oh, yes, I see. Can't something be done?"

"I was thinking of that," said the young gentlemen. "You see, I spilled them when I was bringing in the groceries and if I don't hurry the rain will spoil them." Haste was suggested, but was as soon rejected by this watcher of his own iniquity. He sat for a time shrouded in Cathedral silence. He had acquired the fatalism and the inactivity of the twelve-year-old. He had spilled three pounds of Cinnamon balls, salvation lay only in the laps of the far away gods upon Olympus.

Be it said to his credit that he stiffened his trembling lips with a man-like smile and changed the subject, "You got a motorcycle?"

"Hardly," and the tone implied, so the Vagabond hoped, that the question was as ill-timed as if Lancelot, baiting Arthur, might ask if he had seen "Shanghai Express." But age is the only anachronism for youth and bitterness passed unnoticed.

"Better get one. I know where you can get one for $89 even before you begin to argue about it." Here was indeed a modern child.

"And why should I have a motorcycle?"

"They're faster'n hell."

The explanation had been made and the matter was concluded. So too was the perplexing question of the Cinnamon balls. The young gentleman spied his dog in the distance and whistled him up. For a man of his Napoleonic stature, creatures, be they dumb or ever so valuable, were merely pawns to his bidding. The dog saw the Cinnamon balls and history repeated itself; "the dog it was that died."