“Neither I nor my child has tasted food since yesterday.”
“Well, that can be easily remedied,” said Dodger, cheerfully. “There is a restaurant close by. I was about to eat supper. Will you come in with me?”
“I am ashamed to impose upon the kindness of a stranger,” murmured the woman.
“Don’t mention it. I shall be very glad of company,” said Dodger, heartily.
“But you are a poor boy. You may be ill able to afford the expense.”
“I am not a millionaire,” said Dodger, “and I don’t see any immediate prospect of my building a palace on Nob Hill”—where live some of San Francisco’s wealthiest citizens—“but I am very well supplied with money.”
“Then I will accept your kind invitation.”
It was a small restaurant, but neat in its appointments, and, as in most San Francisco restaurants, the prices were remarkably moderate.
At an expense of twenty-five cents each, the three obtained a satisfactory meal.
The woman and child both seemed to enjoy it, and Dodger was glad to see that the former became more cheerful as time went on.