“If I were only in New York,” he said to himself, “I would see that Florence didn’t suffer. I will write her to let me know if she is in need, and I will send her some money.”
About this time he met with an adventure which deserves to be noted.
It was about seven o’clock one evening that he found himself in Mission Street.
At a street corner his attention was drawn to a woman poorly dressed, who held by the hand a child of three.
Her clothing was shabby, and her attitude was one of despondency. It was clear that she was ill and in trouble.
Dodger possessed quick sympathies, and his own experience made him quick to understand and feel for the troubles of others.
Though the woman made no appeal, he felt instinctively that she needed help.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, with as much deference as if he were addressing one favored by fortune, “but you seem to be in need of help?”
“God knows, I am!” said the woman, sadly.
“Perhaps I can be of service to you. Will you tell me how?”