"Indeed, we do, ma'am; and that is it carrying off junk. We hires it out to our neighbors to carry their coal home, and their rags to the junk store. Ye'd laugh, ma'am, when we gets home, to see the craters jump into the cart to get their supper."
"You seem to make a very good living," remarked one of the gentlemen.
"We don't complain, sir," answered the man frankly. "We're not beholden to the city for a penny since we first landed in the States."
"Do you ever find anything of value money or jewels?"
"Feth, sir, and that's seldom. I wont deny we do find a little money."
"Well, I hope you'll make a good day of it to-day," said the lady, turning to another group.
Ever since he had heard that money was occasionally found with the other rubbish, Pat had been eagerly searching for some. This was why he had been so pleased to be alone. Every bit of broken glass or shining paper upon which the sun shone was eagerly seized and carefully examined.
After the rude boys left him to his work, Pat slowly went on sorting his piles again. He was quite discouraged, and wished he was anything in the world but a rag and coal picker. Suddenly he rushed forward to pull a pile of rubbish nearer to his seat when a torn envelope fell at his feet. He was just about to throw it away when it occurred to him to see whether it contained anything. He put in his soiled fingers, and to his astonishment pulled out a bank-bill—a one dollar bank-bill!
His first impulse was to secrete it,—glancing around to see whether any one had been watching him,—and then to go on rapidly with his work, as if nothing unusual had happened to him.
His heart beat faster than ever, as he remembered how much a dollar would buy!—a pair of boots, or a new jacket. Yes, he had seen a jacket at the secondhand store costing just one dollar.