“No. Never.”
“Where’s your father?”
“Out looking for work. Maybe he’ll get it to-day, maybe.”
The wistfulness of the childish voice told its own story, and even Mr. Wakeman’s heart was touched by it. He was compelled to say:
“Likely he will, chappie. Likely enough he will. And your mother? I suppose you have a mother?”
“Course. The nicest mother there is.”
“Does she happen to be at home?”
Tom’s gaze flew past the questioner toward a little woman who had entered unperceived, and who was closely followed by a handsome man with a mien as bright and undaunted as if he were not evidently half-starved and poor in the extreme. With the gentlest of movements he placed himself between the lady and the stranger, as if to ward off from her any fresh misfortune.
“Your errand, Mr.”—
“Wakeman. My name is Wakeman. Since you didn’t answer our advertisement I looked you up, myself. I represent Joseph Smith, of the Stock Exchange.”