"There's a top'll spin for fifteen minutes; and look at that knife—four blades and a nut-pick; then there's these carnelians—look—nine; they're worth a quarter apiece. I'll give 'em all for him."
Jim shook his head. "He's all I've got, you see, and I'm fond of him. I've fed him when I went hungry myself."
"I'll give you some money, then. See, you could buy—some clothes."
Jim looked down at his pitiful rags, but stood firm.
"Take this anyhow," said the boy, with a look of sympathy, holding out a half-dollar. "Get something good for you and the dog."
Jim eyed the coin wistfully. "Won't your father care?" he asked.
"No, no," laughed the boy; "he isn't here, though. Been gone away for six months, and he's coming home to-night, and we're going to have the jolliest Thanksgiving. Where's your home?"
"I ain't got no home. There's no Thanksgivin' for me anywheres."
"Dear me!" the bright face lengthened into an expression of surprise and dismay. "But my mamma says everybody has something to be thankful for"; but he looked at Jim as if he thought there might be cases in which this was to be doubted. "I'll tell you what," he went on, after a pause. "You come to our house to-morrow afternoon, and I'll give you such a dinner! Say, now, will you?"
"I don't know," said Jim, slowly. "I'd like to. Where is it?"