"Thank y' kindly," he said; then, as the fingers made assurance of the fortune which had come to him, "Ow, thank ye werry much, y'r gryce," he added.
Something alert and determined in the face of the boy struck the giver of the coin as he opened the paper to glance at its contents, and he paused to scan him more closely. He saw the hunger in the lad's eyes as they swept over the breakfast-table, still heavy with uneaten breakfast—bacon, nearly the whole of an omelette, and rolls, toast, marmalade and honey.
"Wait a second," he said, as the boy turned toward the door.
"Yes, y'r gryce."
"Had your breakfast?"
"I has me brekfist w'en I sells me pypers." The lad hugged the remaining papers closer under his arms, and kept his face turned resolutely away from the inviting table. His host correctly interpreted the action.
"Poor little devil—grit, pure grit!" he said under his breath. "How many papers have you got left?" he asked.
The lad counted like lightning. "Ten," he answered. "I'll soon get 'em off now. Luck's wiv me dis mornin'." The ghost of a smile lighted his face.
"I'll take them all," the other said, handing over a second shilling.
The lad fumbled for change and the fumbling was due to honest agitation. He was not used to this kind of treatment.