Down one street, up another, he ran, and always with the silver half-crown tightly clasped in the palm of his little hand.
At last a customer detained the barrow; and Johnny hurried up to it, panting and breathless. He put his hand out towards the tea-roses, and then he held out his silver half-crown.
The flower-seller looked at him curiously, “Why don’t you speak, young ’un?” he said. “Are you dumb? You want this ’alf-crown’s wuth o’ them tea-roses?”
Johnny nodded vehemently.
The man took up a great handful of the pale sweet flowers, and thrust them into the boy’s hands, taking in exchange the half-crown, and putting it away in a sort of pouch, along with many silver mates.
As for Johnny, there are in every life supreme moments, and his came then. He held in his hand the flowers that Miss Endell loved, and he was going to give them to her.
All his life he had felt himself in every one’s way. She, only, had made him welcome to her side. She had called him “dear,”—and now there was something he could do for her. She had loved one tea-rose: how much, then, would she love a whole handful of tea-roses! His heart swelled with a great wave of pride and joy.
He thought of nothing but his flowers,—how should he?—and he never even heard or saw the butcher’s cart, tearing along at such a pace as John Gilpin never dreamed of. And in a moment, something had pushed him down,—something rolled and crunched over him,—and he knew nothing; but he held the flowers tight through it all.
“Why, it’s Mrs. Stone’s dumb Johnny!” said the butcher-boy, who had got down from his cart by this time, and was addressing the quickly assembled London crowd. “Gi ’e a hand, and lift un up into my cart, and I’ll carry un home.”