“Now, sir, please!” cried a rough voice, as a heavily-laden man came up, and my companion drew me into the road.
“Tell me your name.”
“Gordon, sir,” I said. “Mayne Gordon.”
“Come and see me—and my wife,” he said, taking a card from a shabby pocket-book. “Come on Sunday evening and have tea with us—Kentish Town. Will you come?”
“Yes,” I said, eagerly.
“That’s right. There, I can’t talk now. Shake hands. Good-bye.”
He wrung my hand hard, and turned hurriedly away, but I was by his side again.
“Stop,” I said. “You have not taken the—the—”
“No,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder, “I can’t do that. You’ve given me something worth a thousand such coins as that, boy as you are—renewed faith in my fellow-man—better still, patience and hope. Good-bye, my lad,” he said, brightly. “On Sunday, mind. Don’t lose that card.”
Before I could speak again he had hurried away, and just then a cold chill ran through me, and I set off at a run.