Samuel Twitter senior was impressed with the honesty of the man’s manner, and the wisdom of his advice. Letting go the hand, after a parting squeeze, he rose up and left the room. Two minutes later, North and Sammy followed.
They found the old father outside, who again grasped his son’s hand with the words, “Sammy, my boy—dear Sammy;” but he never got further than that.
Number 666 was there too.
“You’ll find the cab at the end of the street, sir,” he said, and next moment Sammy found himself borne along—not unwillingly—by North and his father.
A cab door was opened. A female form was seen with outstretched arms.
“Mother!”
“Sammy—darling—”
The returning prodigal disappeared into the cab. Mr Twitter turned round.
“Thank you. God bless you, whoever you are,” he said, fumbling in his vest pocket; having forgotten that he represented an abject beggar, and had no money there.
“No thanks to me, sir. Look higher,” said the Bible-seller, thrusting the old gentleman almost forcibly into the vehicle. “Now then, cabby, drive on.”