persons he sought, until he met a young urchin whom he questioned.
"Slavin?" pronounced the precious street arab. "Champeen? He's at Murphy's shed."
A man named Murphy ran a cheap ice cream place further down the street, Ralph remembered. The shed he also recalled as a loafing place for juvenile road hands around the noon and evening hours.
It was a great open structure where expressmen stored their wagons for shelter. Ralph reached its proximity in a few minutes. He glanced around the open end of the place.
Three or four boys were squatted on the ground. Two of them had a coat and a vest, on which they were clumsily sewing. Near by, wrapped in an old horse-blanket, seated on a box, his eyes fixed gloomily on the ground, was the object of Ralph's visit—Young Slavin.
Ralph went forward at once. Two of the group sprang to their feet, startled. Young Slavin, looking spiritless and cowed, craned his bull neck in silent wonder and uncertainty.
"Mr. Slavin," spoke Ralph promptly, "I have been trying to find you."
"What for?" mumbled Slavin in a muffled tone. "I'm ripped up the back. Out of training—see you later."
