"Be you a-goin' home to Thanksgivin'?"
"I—hope so"—his voice broke—"thanks to you."
Jim smiled. "I guess mother sent some 'un to help me. Where's George?" The dog had crept close to his master, and no one had driven him away. "Hello, old feller.—Give Johnny Welford my dog—he'll know. Tell Johnny Welford I can't—come to his house—for—Thanksgivin'." The voice died away.
Jim had his Thanksgiving dinner at Johnny Welford's house, but it was a few spoonfuls of wine, given by the white hands of Johnny Welford's mother. And he was the only guest, for there was no merry-making in the beautiful house where the poor little street Arab lay in the balance between life and death. And from many other hearts in the city went up, with fervent thanksgiving, the earnest prayer that the little life which had been so freely offered for others might be spared.
"And you lost your poor foot, my boy," some one said, months after. "You'll have to go without it all your life."
"Why, yes," said Jim, with a laugh; "but, bless me! I'm enough sight better off with one foot 'n ever I was with two. Why, it's been Thanksgivin' for me and George all the time ever since. Eh, old feller?"