Wycherley sinks a hand in his pocket, and after a thorough and systematic search in order that he may corner all fugitive pieces, he draws out sundry nickels and coppers, which, upon being marshaled upon the palm of his hand, he counts.
“Twenty cents, sum total; not a fortune, it’s true, but better than I’ve known many a time. Let’s see how I’ll divide it: five for a paper, ten for breakfast, and the last nickel brings a cigar. There’s luxury for you; a prince could have no more. Hi! boy, come here.”
In another minute the paper has changed hands.
“Now to feed the inner man, who clamors for attention. Over a cup of coffee and some rolls in a beanery near by, I’ll read my fortune. What a delicious state of uncertainty—it’s heads or tails whether I win or lose a million. Then I enjoy all the sensations of the greatest plunger and never risk a dollar. I must copyright my scheme. Hello! what’s this?”
He has come upon a little girl crying—a child who belongs in the poorer walks of life, for her clothes are scanty, and her face thin. She sobs as though her heart would break.
“Come, come, what is the matter, my child?” he asks, touched by her despair.
“I can’t find it, and it was all granny had.”
“What have you lost, then?”
“She sent me out last night to buy something to eat, and I fell down and lost the money. I came early this morning to look, but I can’t find it. She won’t have any breakfast, poor old granny. I’ve cried nearly all night, but she told me never to mind, that God would find it for me in the morning, but I guess he forgot.”
Indeed, her swollen eyes give evidence that what she says is true.