Suddenly they stopped and his glance deflected, alert and apprehensive--his ear had caught a low crooning of song. It came from a small boy who, a little wooden boat in his hand, was advancing up the slope. This was Tito Murano, Junior, Tito's first-born, nine years old, softly footing it home after a joyous hour along the edge of the tules.
Tito's mother was Irish, but the Latin strain had flowered forth strong in her son. He was bronze-brown, with a black bullet head and eyes like shoe buttons. A pair of cotton trousers and a rag of shirt clothed him and his feet were bare and caked with mud. A happy day behind him and the prospect of supper made his heart light and he gave forth its joy in fresh, bird-sweet carolings.
He did not see the tramp and a sharp, "Hey, there, kid," made him halt, startled, gripping the treasured boat against his breast. Then he made out the man, and stood staring, poised to run.
"Is there any way of getting across this infernal place?" The tramp's hand swept the prospect.
Bashfulness held Tito speechless, and he stood rubbing one foot across the other.
The man's eyes narrowed with a curious, ugly look.
A muttered negative came from the child. The question contained a quality of scorn that he felt and resented.
"I want to cross the marsh, get to the railway. What's the best way to go?"
Tito's arm made a sweeping gesture round the head of the tules.
"Good God--that's _miles_. How do people go, the people here, when they want to get to the other side?"
"That way." Tito repeated his gesture. "But they don't go often, and they mostly rides."
The man gave a groaning oath, picked up his hat, then cast it from him with fury, and, planting his elbows on his knees, dropped his forehead on his hands. Tito was sorry for him, and advanced charily, his heart full of sympathy.
"The duck shooters have laid planks," he murmured encouragingly.
"All along. They lay 'em when they come to shoot and then they let 'em lay. Nobody don't ever go there 'cept the duck shooters."
"You mean I can get across by the planks?"
Tito forgot his bashfulness and drew nearer. He was emboldened by the thought that he could help the tramp, give assistance as man to man.
"_You_ couldn't. It's all mud and water, and turns too, like you was goin' round in rings. But _I_ could--I bin acrost, right over to the Ariel Club." He pointed to a small white square on the opposite side. "That's where. The railroad's a ways beyont that, but it ain't awful far."