When he left home that morning he had only a halfpenny in his pocket, consequently he could get himself no better breakfast than a small cup of coffee. The cold, and the exercise he had been going through since early morning, had raised his healthy appetite to a ravenous pitch, and this, joined to his anxiety, induced him at last to depart from his invariable custom of simply touching his cap, and made him raise an imploring voice, to beseech for the coins which he had honestly earned.
"Please, sir, I'm h'awful cold and 'ungry—give us a penny—do, for pity's sake," he said, addressing an elderly gentleman who was hurrying quickly to his home in a square close by.
Would the gentleman stop, pause, look at him? Would he slacken his pace the least morsel in the world, or would he pass quickly on like those cross old ladies whom he had last addressed? His heart, began to beat a trifle more hopefully, for the old gentleman certainly did pause, pushed back his hat, and gave him—not a penny, but a quick, sharp glance from under two shaggy brows.
"I hate giving to beggars," he muttered, preparing to hurry off again. But Tom was not to be so easily repressed.
"Please, sir, I ain't a beggar. I works real 'ard, and I'm h'awful 'ungry, please, sir."
He was now following the old gentleman, who was walking on, but slowly, and as though meditating with himself.
"That's a likely story!" he said, throwing his words contemptuously at poor Tom: "you, hungry! go and feed. You have your pocket full of pennies this moment, which folks threw to you for doing nothing. I hate that idle work."
"Oh! h'indeed, sir, I ain't nothink in 'em—look, please, sir."
A very soiled pocket, attached to a ragged trouser, was turned out for the old gentleman's benefit.
"You have 'em in your mouth," replied the man. "I'm up to some of your dodges."