“I did, Jimmy!” and the ugly, wizened little face was brightened with a smile, “every one I sold—and look here, will you?” and he held up a silver quarter.
“Well done, you!” and Jim patted him approvingly on the back. “Now see here; here’s two tens and a five I’ll give you for it; you’ll give me one of the tens, to buy your papers for you in the morning, and the fifteen will get you a bed at Mother Rooney’s, and buy your supper and breakfast. You’d better peg right along, for it’s quite a walk from here. Be along bright and early, and I’ll have the papers ready for you.”
The little fellow nodded, and limped away.
“Who is he, anyhow?” asked Johnny, when he was out of hearing.
“Oh, I don’t know!” and Jim looked embarrassed, for the first time in his life, so far as Johnny’s knowledge of him went. “He’s a little beggar whose grandmother or something died last week, and the other people in the room kicked him out. You see, your mother had just been reading us that piece about neighbors—about that old fellow that picked up the one that was robbed, and gave him a ride, and paid for him at the tavern, and then she said it ought to be just the same way now—we ought to be looking out for chances to be neighborly, and it just happened—”
Jim had grown quite red in the face, and now he stopped abruptly.
“I think that was jolly of you,” said Johnny, warmly, “how near you did he live, before he was kicked out?”
“About two miles off, I should say, if I was to survey it,” and Jim grinned, recovering his composure as he did so.
“I often wonder at you, Johnny Leslie,” he continued, “and think maybe you came out of a penny paper story, and were swapped off for another baby, when you were little!”
“What on earth do you mean?” asked Johnny, impatiently. He was somewhat afraid of Jim’s sharp eyes and tongue.