"She'll soon be in. She is probably talking with a neighbour. Wait; I'll go and ask the boy. He must be near the house."
Presently she put a shawl over her shoulders, gave a last look to the boiling pots, covered one, took another off, and was soon with me in the street. She looked to the right and left, asked the grocer and butcher, and finished by calling down the street: "Mike! Mike! Where are you, loafer?" She soon distinguished him among the other boys and pointed him out to me. He was standing with his back to us watching the other boys as they glided on their skates.
"Mike, Mike!" the woman called, but the boy was too engrossed to hear her. Together we walked up to him. "That gentleman wants to see your mother, you loafer," the woman introduced him, and went her way. A boy of twelve years old, who looked like one of eight by his physique, and like an old man by his wrinkled and worn-out look. Pale, stooping, with a little nervous twitch around the lips and a short tearing cough as he spoke. This told the tale of his misery.
"What do you want?" he asked me angrily.
"Come into the house," I answered, and putting a hand on his shoulder I signed him to follow me.
"I want to stay here," the boy said, and with a jerk he freed himself from my hand. "I want to watch the boys play—run on the skates," and he turned away to watch one particularly able boy as he made fancy figures with his feet.
"Where are your skates, Mike?" I questioned.
"I have none. What's it your business?"
From the empty lot flew a ball. Mike caught it and was about to throw it back when one of the boys called out:
"Hi, Hi, Mike—charity kid—hurry up. Throw the ball here. Hurry up."