Jerry stopped in his walk and looked down to see who had addressed him. It was a little girl, and she was crying bitterly.
“Five cents?” he repeated.
“Yes, mister; please don’t say no. I’ve asked so many for the money already and they won’t give me a cent.”
“What are you going to do with five cents?”
“I’ve got to bring it home to daddy.”
“To daddy—you mean your father?”
“He’s a sort of a father, but he’s not my real papa,” sobbed the little girl. “He took me when papa died.”
“What does your—your daddy want with the five cents?”
At this question the little girl’s face flushed.
“I—I daren’t tell you—daddy would whip me,” she whimpered.