"Why don't the tickets get mad when the conductor punches 'em?"

   "Eh? What's that? Tickets? A conductor? I'm not the conductor!" a voice exclaimed. "Who's this grabbing my hand?"

   Laddie looked up.

   He had hold of the wrong daddy!

   The man whose hand Laddie had taken hold of in the crowd, thinking it was his father's, looked down at the little fellow and smiled. And when Laddie saw the smile he felt better.

   "What was it you were asking me, little boy?" the man kindly inquired.

   "I was—I was asking you a riddle," said Laddie.

   "What about?" the man wanted to know.

   "It was about a conductor punching tickets on the train," said Laddie. "But I don't know the answer."

   "First, what is the question?" the man inquired, still smiling.

   "It's why don't the tickets get mad when the conductor punches 'em?" Laddie repeated.

   "Hum," mused the man. "I don't believe

   that I know the answer to that riddle. Did you think I did?"

   "Well, I—I didn't know," said Laddie slowly. "Nobody seems to know the answer to that riddle. But, you see, I thought you were my father when I took hold of your hand."

   "Oh, you did!" and the man laughed and gave Laddie's hand a gentle squeeze. "Well, I thought you were my little boy, for a moment. But then I happened to think that he is away down in New York City, so, you see, it couldn't be my little boy. But are you lost?"

   "Oh, no," answered Laddie. "That is, I'm not very much lost. You see, we're going to my Grandma Bell's, and we changed cars here."

   "How many of you are going to Grandma Bell's?" asked the man as he stopped in the crowed and began looking around.

   "My father and my mother and six of us little Bunkers," answered Laddie.

   "Six little Bunkers!" repeated the man. "Is that 

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