"I'll do it, so help me! I had all my money stolen from me by a man that I befriended, who said he had no place to stop. I've been trying for work for two weeks and a starving to death a doing of it. I'll—"
"Hold on," interrupted Ben, "I am sorry for you but I have not a single cent myself."
The man looked incredulous.
"It is a fact," continued Cleveland. "I want to go to New Orleans, and here I am stopped for want of two cents with which to cross this ferry."
"What, you broke with all them good clothes on!" exclaimed the shoemaker in astonishment.
Ben thought he was dressed very shabbily, having donned the oldest and coarsest suit he owned, but in the eyes of the dilapidated shoemaker he was, undoubtedly, arrayed like unto a lily of the field. He answered however:
"I tell you the actual truth, my friend. I have not one cent myself."
"Have you had any thing to eat? Are you hungry?" asked the shoemaker, thrusting his hand into a breast pocket and producing a package of cold victuals wrapped up in a dirty piece of old newspaper.
Ben looked surprised at this generosity on the part of one who a moment before had confessed himself as starving to death, but refrained from expressing his thoughts as he declined the proffered food.
"You've got along well for chuck, then," remarked the shoemaker, returning the package to his pocket.