“They mustn’t be wasted,” said Wally, with solemn joy. “I’ll buy ’em from you, Jean, and put ’em in Jim’s sock for Christmas. He’ll be so pleased!” He pocketed the pins and repossessed himself of his own parcels. “I’d never have had the pluck to go and buy those things,” he said, “but the beautiful instinct of friendship tells me that they’re the articles for which my soul has longed for Jimmy!”
“Take care—he’s coming!” Norah laughed. They greeted Jim with an air of innocence that would certainly have failed to deceive any one less heated and annoyed than that worthy.
“What a place to be out of!” he ejaculated. “And some people go shopping for fun! Where’s Dad?”
“Coming,” Norah said, watching her father’s tall head in the crowd. “He likes it about as much as you do, Jimmy, judging by his expression.” She smiled at Mr. Linton as he fought his way up to them. “Ready, Dad?”
“Yes, thank goodness!” said her father. “Come along—here’s the car. Now, there’s a poor soul!”
He stopped, looking at a little crippled hunchback in a wheeled chair; a boy who might have been any age, from child to man, so small was he, and yet so old and weary his face. He was gazing wistfully at the gay little group round the big motor. A tray of matches lay across his knees; tied to the arm of his chair was a cluster of many-coloured balloons—a pitiful contrast to the dull hopelessness of his face. Jim whistled softly.
“Poor little wretch,” he said. “Can’t we buy him out, Dad?”
“We’ll do our best—even if the populace thinks we’re the advance agents of a circus!” replied Mr. Linton. “Go and buy his balloons, Norah.”
“What—all of them, Dad?”
“Yes—all of them.”