In a few moments the pail was full, and the boy turned toward his home, running as fast as he could, with the dog trotting along by his side.
“See wot I foun’ in the ashes,” he cried, bounding into the room. “Here’s the fortune alive an’ kickin’. Wot you think of it?”
“Oh, wot a funny fortune!” said Tony, and “Wot a funny fortune!” repeated little Lena.
“It’s kinder queer,—the pocket-book an’ the dimint ring a-turnin’ into a dog!” Tony continued. “But no matter, if we can’t buy nothin’ with him, we can love him, poor little feller!”
“Poor ’ittle feller!” repeated Lina. “He nicer than dollie ’ithout a head, ennyhow. We can lub him.”
“An’ now, Carl,” said the housekeeper, “you make the fire, an’ I’ll run to market, for it’s most time you went after your papers.”
And away she sped, to return in a few minutes with five or six cold potatoes, a few crusts of bread, and one bone, with very little meat—and that gristle—clinging to it.
And this bone—think if you can of a greater act of self-denial and charity—the children decided with one accord should be given to “Cinders,” as they had named the dog on the spot.
That night, after Carl had sold his papers, and come home tired but hopeful, for he had made thirty cents clear profit to save toward the rent, they all huddled together, with doggie in the midst of them, around the old iron furnace that held their tiny fire.
Presently the Head of the Family began whistling a merry tune, which was a great favorite with the newsboys.