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 He was drawn out of his reverie by the soft voice of a little negro boy asking him apprehensively whom he was talking to.

Peter stopped, drew forth a handkerchief and dabbed the moisture from his cold face in the meticulous fashion of college men.

With the boy came a dog which was cautiously smelling Peter's shoes and trousers. Both boy and dog were investigating the phenomenon of Peter. Peter, in turn, looked down at them with a feeling that they had materialized out of nothing.

“What did you say?” he asked vaguely.

The boy was suddenly overcome with the excessive shyness of negro children, and barely managed to whisper:

“I—I ast wh-who you wuz a-talkin' to.”

“Was I talking?”

The little negro nodded, undecided whether to stand his ground or flee. Peter touched the child's crisp hair.

“I was talking to myself,” he said, and moved forward again.

The child instantly gained confidence at the slight caress, took a fold of Peter's trousers in his hand for friendliness, and the two trudged on together.

“Wh-whut you talkin' to yo' se'f for?”

Peter glanced down at the little black head that promised to think up a thousand questions.

“I was wondering where to go.”