The boy joined in with her on the chorus of the song, and there was something about it that brought a mist to Frank’s eyes. He stopped and listened, feeling in his pocket for a piece of money.
When the song was finished the boy passed around the hat. Few of the listeners gave anything, but each one was thanked. Frank threw a dime into the hat. It was more than he could afford, but he felt that it was the only kind of extravagance in which he would indulge.
The boy and girl looked alike, and Frank decided they were brother and sister. The boy played again, and they sang.
A crowd of roistering young chaps came along and stopped. When the song was finished they made some comments about the girl, bringing the hot blood to the cheeks of Frank Merriwell.
“She’s good enough to hug,” said one.
“That she is,” laughed another. “She’s a peach. What’ll you bet I don’t hug her?”
“She needs money. Perhaps she’d let you kiss her for a quarter, Ned.”
“By Jove! I’d give it!”
“You don’t dare, right here on the street.”
“I’ll go you the drinks on it.”