“How did they get there?” from Chub, his little brow full of puzzled knots.
“Arrah thin, ye ax too many questions, honey. Some good angel flew down and lifted them up, of course, and—and—flew away wid ’em agin. Run now to the corner and fetch me a bar of soap, there’s a dear.”
Chub went for the soap, and, returning, seated himself on the curb-stone as we first found him, and calculating the length of time it might possibly take an angel to fly heavenward with little Jennie’s mother, watched the blue patch and fleecy clouds to see the final entrance of the two into that other world granny talked about. Presently two bootblacks strolled along, jingling pennies in their pockets, and swinging their blacking-boxes independently.
“Hi, Chub,” they shouted, “want a penny?”
Chub held out his hand nothing loth.
“Who giv it ter yer?” he asked, delightedly, for so much wealth had not been his since he could remember.
“Earned it shinin’ boots, ov course. We’re rich men, Chub, don’t ye know that?” passing on with a chuckle.
An idea seized our small boy. He withdrew his toes from the gutter, forgot all about the flying angel and patch of sky, and startled granny, who was bending over her wash-tub, with:
“Granny, I’m goin’ inter business, like other men.”
“Bless the boy! what does he mean?”