"Where's that?" I inquired.
"Where's what?" said he. "Oh, Piccadilly! It's in London."
"Have you a large garden?" I asked; "and how many pigs have you got?"
"I've no garden at all," he replied sadly, "and they don't allow me to keep pigs, though I'd like to, awfully. It's very hard."
"But what do you do all day, then," I cried, "and where do you go and play, without any garden, or pigs, or things?"
"When I want to play," he said gravely, "I have to go and play in the street; but it's poor fun, I grant you. There's a goat, though, not far off, and sometimes I talk to him when I'm feeling lonely; but he's very proud."
"Goats are proud," I admitted. "There's one lives near here, and if you say anything to him at all, he hits you in the wind with his head. You know what it feels like when a fellow hits you in the wind?"
"I do, well," he replied, in a tone of proper melancholy, and painted on.
"And have you been to any other places," I began again presently, "besides Rome and Piccy-what's-his-name?"
"Heaps," he said. "I'm a sort of Ulysses - seen men and cities, you know. In fact, about the only place I never got to was the Fortunate Island."
I began to like this man. He answered your questions briefly and to the point, and never tried to be funny. I felt I could be confidential with him.
"Wouldn't you like," I inquired, "to find a city without any people in it at all?"
He looked puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand," said he.
"I mean," I went on eagerly, "a city where you walk in at the
