whistling for it. ([See p. 271]).
"Coffee twopence, a fine big cup too, bread and sausage twopence, and a lump of the currant pudding to wind up; something like a supper that."
Poor hungry Patch! as he lifted his arms from the ledge a sudden recollection of Mike under the dark archway came back to his mind. He wished it had not obtruded itself just then; he had quite enough trouble to get food for himself without looking after other people, and yet something made him hesitate on the threshold and presently go back to his old position, elbows on the window-ledge, while he solemnly debated the matter in his own mind.
It was a subject he had never considered before in all his solitary selfish life; kindly words or deeds had not been his portion, and the gentle-faced woman who had given him a sixpence instead of a scolding was a new feature in his experience.
The debate ended in his walking soberly away from the bright visions in the window to the humbler shop he usually favoured with his custom, and there laying out the precious sixpence in bread and cold meat. He took his purchase, the bread under his arm, the meat in a piece of newspaper, and carried the feast to the doorway where Mike still sat crouching in the chilly darkness.
"Wake up, Mike; see here what I've got. There's some for you as well; sit up and begin."
Mike lifted his head from his arm in utter amazement. "You ain't joking about it?" and then—he was but a little fellow, and hunger is hard to bear—at the sight of the provisions Patch was laying out on the newspaper wrapper, he began to cry for very gladness.
"Stop that!" ordered his host, peremptorily. "It's damp enough without you beginning. Eat away, there's plenty of it."
"Did they trust you at the shop?" queried Mike when the banquet was well in progress. "You said you'd no money."
"Did they ever trust you at the shop when you'd no money?" demanded Patch, scornfully. "I paid for it, that's all you need bother yourself about."