Time and again the writer has seen him patiently standing by at a corner with the stump of a cigar in his mouth, as contented as a cow chewing its cud in a pasture. He asks alms of no one. His greetings make you pause to look at the man, and persons inclined to take more than a passing interest will drop something in his pocket, or will engage him in conversation.

Golden is not much of a conver­sationalist, however. “Morning Massa Willie; Thank you massa, or Thank you Missis,” seems the beginning and end of his vocabulary. But if you want to make him happy give him a cigar. Put it in his mouth and light it for him and wait. If he is in the mood, he will talk. If he is not, then he will smile, and tell you, “Thank you Massa Willie,” repeating the sentence like a parrot. Every man is “Massa Willie” for him, but you have got to study him before you can get anything out of him.

Not only in the day time but at night you see him in the city. He speaks to no one. What can his mission be? One naturally asks him. Ask him and you will be none the wiser. Give him a coin, and he raises the stump in salute and smiles broadly. But give him a cigar and the man seems to come out of himself.

His rugged personality attracted my attention. Standing one night with his basket in his hand at a corner – a night when most persons were hurrying home to escape the threatening down-pour - he stood like a sentry doing duty.

“Why don’t you get out of this?” I asked.

“ Ah, Massa Willie,” he said, but he did not budge.

“Tell me where do you put up at night?” I asked.

‘‘My house,” he replied.

“Home,” I repeated.

“Yes, at my house,” he said.

Where?

“Spanish Town Road,” was the equally laconic reply.

“But why do you remain down here until now?” I asked him.

“Give me a smoke,” he said.

‘”Will you have a cigarette?” I asked.

The grunt the man gave startled me “Cigarette,” he disdainfully replied.

‘‘I smoke cigar.”

“You do,” I said.

“Of course,” was his answer and that settled it.

I hadn’t a cigar, but as I wanted to hear more of the man I got one. He asked me to light it and put it in his mouth for him. I did so. He

PUFFED AWAY VIGOROUSLY,

and every question of mine was wasted on him.

“Do you drink?” I asked of him.

He shrugged his shoulders sug­gestively, and pointed to a pan in his basket.

“But,” I said, “strong drink may not agree with you.”

He puffed away,  but did not vouchsafe an answer.

‘‘How do you manage?’’ I questioned.

Still he was quiet as the Sphinx.

The [street-]car came, and I left him. I had seen him once before at the lnspector of Poor’s office.

Perhaps if I met him there again I would hear more about him, and so I bided my time.

He recognized me as I spoke to him about two weeks after. “Give me a cigar,” he asked of me.

“I will give you a smoke if you tell me all about yourself from you were so high,” I said, holding my hands a couple of feet above the ground.

“Long time that. What it trouble you over?’’ he queried.

“I want to know,” I said. “How did you manage to lose your hands.”

‘‘Cane mill,’’ he replied

“Cane mill?” I repeated. “Well how did it happen?”

“Constant Spring,” he said.

“l see,” I replied. “You were working at the cane mill at Constant Spring estate.”

“But how did you know?” he enquired.

You have just told me “Well that’s all.” He said.

“Is it”” I queried “Come now Golden, I have heard other stories.”

“Massa Willie, I tell you I was a bwoy once.”

“I quite believe that,” I replied.

Very well,” he went on, “and when I was a bwoy I used to feed mill at Constant Spring, you don’t know nothing about that though,” he add­ed depreciatingly, “however I used to feed the mill. One day I made mistake, my left hand got in the feeder, and I put the other one in to draw it out. And you see for yourself what happened. I went to hospital. I came out, and since then I have lived on what I can. But thank God, him provide for me, as