His Tale of Woe.
The little boy was crying and his tears touched the heart of the charitably inclined lady; he was so small and seemed to be in such distress.
“Don’t cry, little boy,” she said, soothingly. “Dry your eyes and tell me what the trouble is. Did some of the big boys hurt you?”
“No’m,” replied the waif, still sobbing.
“Are you sick or hungry?” she persisted.
“No’m.”
“Did your father beat you for something?”
“No’m, but he will.”
“Oh, that’s the trouble, is it?”
“Yes’m.”
“Well, it’s a shame,” she exclaimed, angrily. “Why will he beat you?”
“’Cause I lost ten cents.”
“Did he send you to buy something with it?”
“Yes’m.”
“And you lost it on the way?”
“Yes’m.”
“Oh, well, I guess we can fix that,” she said in her kindly way, as she took a dime from her purse and handed it to the boy. “Now he won’t beat you, will he?”
“No’m.”
“What did he send you to buy with it?”
“Beer.”
“Beer!” The good lady gasped at the thought.
“Yes’m.”
“And how did you lose it?”
“Matchin’ pennies.”
Before she had sufficiently recovered to demand the return of her dime the boy was gone.