He admired Mrs. Kukor's stand. Backed by her, he meant to keep the book and read it every minute he could. So with Big Tom once more in the kitchen, having an after-supper pipe in the morris chair, Johnnie ignored Cis's silent invitation to join her in the window, and brought his bedding from her room, spreading it out ostentatiously beside the stove. Then having filled the teakettle and stirred the breakfast cereal into the big, black pot, he flung himself down upon his mattress with a weary grunt.

Barber smiled. The boy was tired. For once some real work had been done around the place. "You better git t' bed early, too," he remarked to Cis. As advice from him always amounted to a command, she disappeared at once. Presently Big Tom got up, stretched his gorilla arms, yawned with a descending scale of Oh's, and went lumbering to bed.

A wait—which to Johnnie seemed interminable, while dusk thickened to darkness; then snores. The snoring continued all the while he was counting up to four hundred. Also it achieved a regularity and loudness that guaranteed it to be genuine. Still Johnnie did not open his eyes. There were little movements in Cis's room, and he felt sure she was not asleep. Soon he had proof of it. For peering up carefully from under lowered lids, he saw her door slowly open; next, she came to stand in it, dimly outlined in her faded cotton kimono.

She had something white in one hand. This she waved up and down in a noiseless signal. He did not stir. She stole forward, bent down, and touched him. He went on breathing deep and steadily. She tiptoed back to her bed.

As patiently as possible he waited till the sound of her regular breathing could be heard between Barber's rasping snores. Then he sat up. So long as he had been able to read, he had thought of nothing but reading. But with the book put away there had come to him a wonderful plan—a plan that made his bony little spine gooseflesh: He would rub Barber's old kitchen lamp!

Seldom used, it stood on a cupboard shelf beside the clock. Fairly holding his breath, he got to his feet and crept across the floor. Inch by inch, cautiously, his hand felt its way to the right shelf, found the lamp, grasped the glass standard. But the table was the only proper place for the experiment. He carried the lamp there and set it down, his heart beating hard under the pleats of his shirt.

Then he considered what his course of action should be. If Big Tom's old lamp chanced to possess even a scrap of that power peculiar to the lamp of Aladdin: if, when he rubbed the none too clean glass base, some genie were to appear, asking for orders—what should he command?

It came to him then that what he wanted most in all the world was not bags of money, not dishes of massy gold, or rich robes, or slaves, but only freedom. He wanted to get away from the flat; to leave behind him forever the hated longshoreman.

"If the great big feller comes when I rub," he told himself, "I'll say t' him, 'Take Grandpa and Cis and me as far away as—as Central Park'" (this a region of delight into which he had peeped when he was three or four years old, under escort of his Aunt Sophie). "'And leave us in a flat as good as this one.'"

With Big Tom out of his life, oh, how he would work!—violet-making, bead-stringing, and, yes, boarders! He could fetch Grandpa's bed out into the new kitchen, and put three roomers into the little bedroom, just as several tenants in this building did. And what he could earn, added to Cis's wages at some factory, and Grandpa's pension (this a princely income which was now regularly drawn and spent by Big Tom) would take care of the three splendidly.

Having settled upon the supreme wish, and fairly holding his breath, he reached out in the darkness and rubbed the lamp.

Nothing happened.

He waited a little. In this lamp business perhaps time figured prominently; though his own friends—Buckle, the four millionaires, David, Goliath, the Prince, and any number of others always appeared in the kitchen promptly.

But no genie of the lamp arrived. To make sure that his test was fair, he rubbed the lamp a second time, all the way around. Still no huge, hideous, helpful figure loomed out of the dark.

He grinned sheepishly, tugged at his hair a few times, then went back to his mattress and sat down. He was not disappointed, for though he had been hopeful, he had not been over-sure. And, anyhow, he had his book. He lifted it out, placed it upon his knees, and rested his forehead upon it. And the next moment, as if whisked to him by a genie all his own, Cathay was about him; and he was with the boy, Aladdin, plunging down a flight of steps on his way to a garden that yielded fruit which was all diamonds and rubies and pearls.



CHAPTER VII

A SERIOUS STEP

HE awoke with such a feeling of happiness—a fluttery feeling, which was in his throat, and also just at the lower end of his breastbone, where he seemed to have so many kinds of sensations. For a moment he did not remember what made him so happy. But as he moved, something hard pressed against his ribs, whereupon the fluttery feeling suddenly spread over the whole of him, so that the calves of those lead-pipe legs got creepy, and his shoulder-blades tingled. Then he knew it was all because of the book.

The process of getting up of a morning was always a simple one. As he slept in his big clothes, all he had to do was scramble to his feet, roll up his bedding, splash a little water upon the central portion of his countenance, dry it away with the apron, and put the apron on.

As a rule he never so much as stirred till Barber or the alarm clock sounded an order. But on this happy morning he did not wait for orders, but rose promptly, though it still wanted more than half an hour to getting-up time. He did yet another unusual thing; noiselessly, so as not to wake any one, he set his bedding roll on end just outside the door of Cis's room, then returned to the table, drew out the drawer, chose a saucer of rose-colored beads, and fell to threading them swiftly. He had two ideas in mind: first, after yesterday's unpleasant experience, he was anxious to make a good impression upon Big Tom; second, and principally, he was stringing now, when he dared not read, in order that, later on, he might be free to enjoy his book.

He held the long needle in his right hand. He poked the beads to the needle's tip with the forefinger of his left. He used his tongue, too, after a fashion, for if a bead was obstinate his tongue tip sometimes helped—by curling itself noseward over his upper lip. Before now he had always thought of rose-colored beads as future rose-colored roses in the beautiful purses that Mrs. Kukor made. But now the beads reminded him of nothing less than that strange garden laying under the horizontal stone in China.

He took out all of his saucers—the pink, the green, the brown, the gold, the blue, the burgundy, the white, the black, the yellow—and found that they gave him a new pleasure. They were the fruit of Aladdin's garden, and he planned to offer them in a yellow bowl to that certain dark-haired little girl. "'What wouldst thou have?'" he quoted. "'I am ready to obey thee as thy slave,'"—a statement that he considered highly appropriate. His whispering was accompanied by gesticulations that bore no relation to bead-stringing, and by tossings of his yellow head.

"Now what y' mumblin' about?" demanded Big Tom. He was watching from the bedroom door, and his look denied that Johnnie, though at work, was making anything like a good impression; quite the contrary—for Barber's bloodshot eyes were full of suspicion. Should a boy who always had to be watched and driven suddenly show a desire to keep busy? "Breakfast on?" he asked.

Johnnie sprang up. "I didn't want to make no noise," he explained. The next moment lids were rattling and coal was tumbling upon some blazing kindling as he started the morning fire.

"A-a-a-ah! What y' got this lamp down for?"—it was the next question, and there was triumph in Big Tom's voice. "Been wastin' oil, have y'? Come! When did y' light it? Answer up!"

"I didn't light it," replied Johnnie, calmly glancing round, his chin on his shoulders.

"No? Then what did y' do? Hey? What?"

"Just took it down 'n' rubbed it."

"M-m-m!—Well, y' made a poor job of your rubbin'. I'll say that!"

"I'll rub it again," said Johnnie. He caught up the dish towel with which he had dried his own face and set to work on the lamp. There was a faint smile on his lips as he worked. There was a smile in his eyes, too, but he kept his lids discreetly lowered.

His whole manner irritated Barber, who sauntered to the table, took a careful survey of it, drew out the drawer, looked it over, then dropped into the morris chair to pull on his socks. Now he sensed, as had Cis the day before, that the air of the flat was charged with something—something that was strange to it. He did not guess it was happiness. But as Johnnie moved quickly between sink and stove, between cupboard and table, Big Tom watched him, and thrust out that lower lip.

While the business of breakfast was on, instead of standing up to the table for his bowl of oats, Johnnie made sandwiches for the two lunches. Hot tea, well sugared, went into Barber's pail. Another tin compartment Johnnie packed with the cooked prunes. A third held slabs of corned-beef between bread. Sour pickles were added to these when he filled Cis's lunchbox, which closely resembled a camera. And now the wide-open, fixed look of his eyes, the uplift at the corners of his mouth, his swelled nostrils and his buoyant step told Cis that he was engaged in some adventure, high and stirring.

But Barber, still watching the boy sharply, made up his mind that the punishment of the day before had done a lot of good. In fact, it seemed to have brought about a complete transformation. For during the two or three minutes that Big Tom allowed himself after eating for the filling of his pipe, Johnnie swept the table clear, washed, dried and put away the dishes, and was so far along with his morning's work that he was wiping off the stove.

Leaving, Barber omitted his usual warnings and directions; and did not even wait outside the door for a final look back, but went promptly down, as the creaking stairs testified, and out, as told by the sucking move and gentle rattle of the hall door.

It was Cis who lingered. When the flat was clear of her stepfather, she fairly burst from her tiny room, and halted face to face with Johnnie, from whose strong right hand the stove rag was even then falling. Her eyes both questioned and challenged him. And the sudden breaking of his countenance into a radiant grin, at one and at the same time, answered her—and confessed.

"Johnnie!" she whispered.

He stretched up to her pink ear to answer, for Grandpa was at the table, still busy over his bowl. "A book," he whispered back, his air that of one who has seen the dream of a lifetime realized.

"What? What kind of a book? And where'd you get it? Show it to me."

He went into the little closet. When he came out, she went in. And presently, as she sauntered into the kitchen once more, he plunged past her and the tiny room received him a second time—all of which was according to a method they had worked out long ago. He was up-headed, and his eyes sparkled as he unpinned a towel from under Grandpa's chin and trundled the wheel chair back from the table. His look said that he defied all criticism.

She reached for the camera-box. Her manner wholly lacked enthusiasm. "I guess it's a good story," she conceded kindly. "I heard about it lots when I was in school. But, my! It's so raggy!"

"Raggy!" scoffed Johnnie. "Huh! I don't care what it looks like!"

When she, too, was gone, he omitted his usual taking of the air at the window. He even denied himself the pleasure of calling up his four millionaires and telling them of his good fortune. The main business of the day was the book. Would Aladdin's order for a palace, complete, be carried out? Would that ambitious Celestial marry the Princess of his choice? Johnnie could scarcely wait to know.

Following a course that he had found good these several years past, he wound the alarm clock a few times and set it to ring sharp at four in the afternoon—which would give him more than a full hour in which to wash Grandpa, make the beds and sweep before Big Tom's return. This done, he opened the book on the table, dug a hand into his tousled mop, and began to read—to read as he might have drunk if thirst were torturing him, and a cool, deep cup were at his lips. For the book was to him really a draught which quenched a longing akin to thirst; it was a potion that gave him new life.

As the story of stories unfolded itself, step by step, the ragged street urchin whose father had been a poor tailor, attained to great heights—to wealth and success and power. Johnnie gloried in it all, seeing such results as future possibilities of his own, and not forgetting to remark how kind, through all the upward trending of fortune, Aladdin had been to his mother (though he, himself, did not pause in his enjoyment of the tale to take the regular train trip with Grandpa).

Twice during the morning the old soldier, by whimpering insistently, brought himself to Johnnie's attention. But the moment Grandpa was waited upon, back Johnnie went to his book, and page was turned upon page as the black magic of the hateful African wafted that most perfect of palaces many a league from its original site, and separated for his own wicked purposes the loving Aladdin and his devoted Buddir al Buddoor.

And then—all of a sudden—and for no reason that Johnnie could name, but as if some good genie of his own were watching over him, and had whispered a warning, he cast off the enthrallment of Asia, stopped dragging at his hair, started to his feet, slid the book under his collar-band, and took stock of the time.

It was twelve. Indeed, the noon whistles were just beginning to blow. But they and the clock did not reassure him. He had been dimly aware, the past hour or so, of a strange state of quiet overhead. That awareness now resolved itself into a horrible fear—the fear that, in spite of lunches put up and a clock wound to clang at four in the afternoon, the day was—Saturday!

"Gee!" breathed Johnnie, and paled to a sickly white.

His first thought was to make sure one way or another. Scurrying to the window, he pushed it up, hung out of it toward the Gamboni casement, and called to a sleek head that at this time of the day was almost certain to be bobbing in sight. There it was, and "What day is this, Mrs. Gamboni?" he demanded. "Quick! Is it Saturday?"

"Si!"

Saturday! A half-day! Barber!

He threw himself backward, then stood for a moment, panic-stricken. Of course it was Saturday. Which explained why Mrs. Kukor was out. Oh, why had she not stopped by on her way to church? Oh, why had he left any of his work undone? Oh, for some genie to finish it all up in a second! Oh, for some Slave of a Ring or a Lamp!

"Gee!" he breathed again. "This was the shortest Saturday mornin' in the world!"

There now came to the fore the practical side of his nature. He knew he must do one of two things: stay, and take the whipping that Big Tom would surely give him, or—go.

What had heretofore kept him from going was the fact that he had no clothes. By the end of his first year in the flat, the little suit he had been wearing when he came was in utter rags. Big Tom had bought him no new suit, declaring that he could not afford it. So Johnnie had had to decide between putting on some of Cis's old garments or Barber's mammoth cast-offs. He chose the latter, which Mrs. Kukor offered to alter, but Barber refused her help. And she knew at once what Johnnie did not guess: the longshoreman wanted the boy to appear ridiculous.

The plan worked. The first time Johnnie had ventured into the area wearing his baggy breeches and a voluminous shirt, the boys who had from the first called "Girl's hair!" at him changed their taunt to "Old clothes!" It had sent him scurrying back into the flat, and it had kept him there, so that Big Tom had some one to look after Grandpa steadily, and bring in a small wage besides.

But now not even the likelihood of being mocked for his ragged misfits could keep Johnnie back. Darting into the hall, he crouched in the dark passage a moment to listen, his heart pounding so hard that he could hear it; then certain that the way was yet clear, he straddled the banisters and, with his two strong hands to steady him and act as a brake to his speed, took the three flights to the ground floor.

As Big Tom usually entered the area by the tunnel-like hall that led in from the main street to the south, Johnnie headed north, first taking care to glance out into the area before he charged across it, blinded by its glare after the semidark of the Barber rooms. He was hatless. His hair and his fringe flew. His feet flew, too, as if the longshoreman were at their horny little heels.

The north tunnel gained, he scampered along it. As he dodged out of it, and westward, again the glare of the outdoors blinded him, so that he did not see a crowd that was ahead of him—a crowd made up wholly of boys.

He plunged among the lot. Instantly a joyous wrangle of cries went up: "Girl's hair! Girl's hair! Old clothes! Old clothes!" A water-pistol discharged a chill stream into his face. Hands seized him, tearing at his rags.

Savagely he battled at the center of the mob, hitting, kicking, biting. His sight cleared, and he made the blows of his big hands tell. "Leave me alone!" he screamed. "Leave me alone!"

The crowd doubled as men and women rushed up to see what the excitement was all about. Then hands laid hold of Johnnie's tormentors, hauling them back, and suddenly he found himself free. Once more he took to his heels, and panting, dripping, scarlet and more ragged than before, he fled ignominiously.



CHAPTER VIII

MORE TREASURES

WHEN he had put half a dozen blocks behind him, he slackened his pace, took a quick look into several doorways, chose one that promised seclusion, dove into it, got his breath back, made sure that the precious book was safe, and then indulged himself in a grin that was all relief.

The grin narrowed as he remembered that Grandpa was alone in the flat. "Oh, but Big Tom or Mrs. Kukor'll be home soon," he reflected; and comforted his conscience further by vowing that, given good luck, he would in no time be in a position to return for the purpose of enticing away both Cis and the old soldier (men are men, and in the stress of the moment he did not give a thought to that slim, little, dark-haired girl). He could not help but feel hopeful regarding his plans. Had not just such adventuring as this accomplished wonderful results for his new friend, Aladdin, a boy as poor as himself?

He did not stay long in the doorway. He felt sure that the moment Barber returned a search of the neighborhood would be made, during which people would be questioned. Discretion urged that more blocks be put between the flat and that small back which so dreaded the strap. So off he went once more—at a lively trot.

Though during the last five years he had not once been so far away from the area as this, he was not frightened. A city-bred boy, he felt as much at ease, scuttling along, as a fish in its native waters, or a rabbit in its own warren. He had taken a westward direction because he knew that the other way East River lay close, shutting off flight. Now he began to read the street signs. Cis had often talked of a great thoroughfare which cut the city into two unequal parts—a one-time road, she said it was, and so long that it ran through other cities. This was the street Johnnie wanted—being the one he had heard most about. It was a street called Broadway.

As he traveled, he passed other dirty, ragged, little boys. His head was the yellowest of them all, his clothes were the poorest. But he was scarcely noticed. The occasional patrolman did not more than glance at him. And he was fully as indifferent. At his Aunt Sophie's, a policeman—by name Mike Callaghan—had been a frequent visitor, when he was wont to lay off not only his cap but his coat as well, and sit around bareheaded in his shirt-sleeves, smoking. This glimpse of an officer of the law, shorn, as it were, of his dignity, had made Johnnie realize, even as a babe, that policemen are but mortals after all, as ready to be pleased with a wedge of pie as any youngster, and given to the wearing of ordinary striped percale shirts under their majestic blue. So Johnnie was neither in awe of, nor feared, them.

What he did keep a fearsome eye out for was any man who might be an African magician. That he would know such a man he felt sure, having a fair idea from a picture in his book of the robe, headdress, sandals and beard proper to magicians in general. But though he was alert enough as he traveled, the only unusual-looking person he met up with was a man with a peg leg and a tray of shoelaces.

That peg leg frightened him. For a moment he was inclined to take to his heels, certain that this was the same wooden-legged man who gave Cis fruit. Then the tray reassured him. Shoelaces were one thing; fruit was another. And even if this one-legged man were full brother to the one-legged man of the fruitstand (Johnnie took for granted a whole one-legged family), he himself would be far away before any member of that family could get in touch with Barber.

It was while he was boldly inspecting the shoe-lace man's peg leg that he discovered he was in Broadway, this by reading the name of the street on the front of a passing car. "Gee!" he exclaimed, taking a good look up and down the thoroughfare.

Now he began really to enjoy himself. He pattered leisurely along, stopping at this window and that, or leaned against a convenient water plug to watch the traffic stream by.

He was resting, and gazing about him, when the wagon driver came up. The driver was a colored youth in a khaki shirt and an overseas cap, and his wagon was a horseless affair, huge and covered. The colored man, halting his truck to let a cross current of vehicles pass, dazzled Johnnie with a good-natured smile.

Johnnie grinned back. "You goin' up Broadway?" he asked, with a jerk of his head toward the north.

"All the way up t' Haa'lem," answered the black man, cordially. "Climb aboa'd!"

There was a loop of chain hanging down from the end-board of the truck. Johnnie guided a foot through it stirrup-wise and reared himself into an empty wagonbed. Then as the wheels began to turn, he faced round, knelt comfortably, and let Broadway swiftly drop behind.

He could not see all the new and engrossing sights that offered themselves in the wake of the truck and to both sides. His ears were packed with strange noises. Yet entertained as he was, from time to time he took note of the cross streets—Eighth, then Tenth, next, busy Fourteenth.

From time to time the colored man took note of him. "You-all thay yit?" he would sing out over a shoulder; or, "Have Ah done los' you, kid?" Upon being reassured, he would return to his problem of nosing a way along with other vehicles, large and small, and Johnnie would once more be left to his fascinating survey.

At Twentieth, he very nearly fell out on that shining head, this at catching sight of a mounted patrolman. No figure in his beloved book seemed more splendid to him than this one, so noble and martial and proud. Here was a guardian of the peace who was obviously no common mortal. Then and there, as the mounted dropped gradually into the background, Johnnie determined that should he ever be rich enough, or if hard work and study could accomplish it, he would be a mounted policeman.

At Twenty-third Street, Broadway suddenly took a sharp turn—toward the right. Also, it got wider, and noticeably cleaner. More: suddenly confronted with the gigantic, three-cornered building standing there, a structure with something of the height and beauty of his own dream edifices, he realized that he was now entering the true New York. This was more like it! Here was space and wealth and grandeur. Oh, how different was this famous street from either of those which gave to the building in the area!

Then he discovered that he was not traveling a street at all! He was skimming along an avenue. And it was none other than Fifth Avenue, for the signs at corners plainly said so. Fifth Avenue! The wonderful, stylish boulevard which Cis mentioned almost reverently. And he was in it!

The next moment he was truly in it. For at sight of a window which the truck was passing, and without even stopping to call to the driver, Johnnie dropped himself over the end-board to the smooth concrete. The window was no larger than many a one he had glimpsed during the long drive northward. What drew him toward it, as if it were a powerful magnet, was the fact that it was full of books.

"My!" he whispered as he gained the sidewalk in front of the window. There were books standing on end in curving rows. There were others in great piles. A few lay flat. It had never occurred to him, shut up so long in a flat without any book save the telephone directory, that there could be so many books in the whole of New York. And all were so new! and had such fresh, untorn covers!

He had stood before the window quite some time, his eyes going from book to book thoughtfully, while one hand tugged at his hair, and the other, thrust into his shirt front, caressed his own dear volume, when he became conscious of the near presence of two people, a man and a woman. The woman was the nearer of the two. On glancing up at her, he found her looking down. That embarrassed him, and he stopped pulling at his hair.

She smiled. "Do you like books, little boy?" she asked.

He nodded. "More'n anything!" he declared fervently.

A pause; then, "Would you like to have a book?" she asked next.

At that, pride and covetousness struggled for first place in him. Pride won. He straddled both feet a bit wider and thrust a thumb into his belt. "I've got a book," he answered.

So far as he was concerned, he thought his remark commonplace, ordinary—certainly not at all amusing. But there was never any telling how this thing or that would strike a grown-up. The man's mouth popped open and he exploded a loud laugh, followed by a second and louder.

"Sh! sh!" admonished the woman, glancing at Johnnie.

"It's old, but it's always good," protested the man, half apologetically.

Along with his boasting, Johnnie had drawn Aladdin forward to the opening in his shirt. Evidently the man had caught a glimpse of that torn cover. Now the boy hastily poked the book to a place under one arm. "It is old," he conceded. "But that don't hurt it—I don't mind."

"Of course, you don't!" chimed in the woman, heartily. "A book's a book as long as it holds together. Besides some books are more valuable as they get older."

"Sure!" agreed Johnnie.

She left them and went inside. And Johnnie found himself being stared at by the man.

The man was a millionaire. Johnnie noted this with a start. He had a way of recognizing millionaires. When he lived with his Aunt Sophie, his Uncle Albert was the chauffeur of one. On the two occasions when that wealthy gentleman showed himself at his red-brick garage in Fifty-fifth Street, he wore a plush hat, dark blue in color, and an overcoat with a fur collar. This short, stout stranger before the window wore the same.

But he was as friendly as possible, for he continued the conversation. "Nice looking lot of books," he observed. "Don't you think so?"

Johnnie nodded again. "What kind of a place would y' call this?" he inquired.

"A store," informed the other. Now he stared harder than ever, so that Johnnie grew uneasy under the scrutiny, and began to consider rounding the nearest corner to get away. "Never seen a bookstore before, eh?"

Johnnie shook his head. "Don't have 'em where I live," he explained.

"No? And where do you live?"

Johnnie felt more uneasy than ever. He determined to be vague. "Me? Oh, just over that way," he answered, with a swing of the arm that took in a full quarter of the horizon—including all territory from Beekman Place to the Aquarium.

The woman rejoined them. In one hand she carried a book. It was a blue book, not quite so large as the story of Aladdin, but in every way handsomer. She held it out to Johnnie. "Here's another book for you," she said. "You'll love it. All boys do. It's called Robinson Crusoe."

Afterwards he liked to remember that he had said "Thank you" when she placed the book in his hands. He was too overcome to look up at her, however, or smile, or exclaim over the gift. He stood there, thrilled and gaping, and holding his breath, while the ends of his red fingers went white with holding the new book so tight, and his pale face turned red with emotions of several kinds, all of them pleasant. At last, when he raised his eyes from the book to her face, that face was gone. The millionaire was gone, too.

Johnnie opened the book. It did not open easily, being so new. But how good it smelled! And, oh, what a lot of it there was, even though it was smaller than the other! For the letters were tiny, and set close together on every page. Twenty to thirty pages Johnnie turned at a time, and found that there were six hundred in all. Also, there was one picture—of a man wearing a curious, peaked cap, funny shoes that tied, and knee trousers that seemed to be made of skins.

It was while he was turning the pages for a second time that he chanced upon the dollar bill. It was between two pages toward the back of the book, and he thought for a moment that it was not there, really, but that he was just thinking so. But it was there, and looked as crisply new as the book. He ran to the corner and stared in every direction, searching for the millionaire and the woman.

Then he felt sure that she had not known the money was in the book. Instead, it belonged to the store, and had somehow got tucked between the leaves by mistake. A revolving door gave to the bookshop. He entered one section of it and half circled his way in.

Never in his boldest imaginings had he thought of such a place as he saw now. It was lofty and long, with glistening counters of glass to one side. But elsewhere there were just books! books! books!—great partitions of them, walls solidly faced with them, the floor piled with them man-high. He forgot why he had come in, forgot his big clothes, his bare feet, his girl's hair, the new blue book, and the dollar.

"Yes? Well? What d' you want?"

It was a man speaking, and rather sharply. He was a red-headed man, and he wore spectacles. He came to stand in front of Johnnie, as if to keep the latter from going farther into the shop.

Johnnie held up the new book. "A lady bought me this," he explained; "and when I opened it I found all this money." Now he held out the dollar.

There were many people in the store. Some of them had on their hats, others were bareheaded, as if they belonged there. A number quietly gathered about Johnnie and the red-haired man, looking and listening. Johnnie gave each a swift examination. They were all so well-dressed, so different from the tenants in the area building.

"The lady slipped the dollar into the book for you," declared the red-headed man. "Wasn't that mighty nice of her?"

Johnnie silently agreed. A dozen pairs of eyes were watching him, and so many strange people were embarrassing. He began slowly to back toward the revolving door.

"What're you going to buy with your dollar, little boy?" asked a man in the group—a tall man whose smile disclosed a large, gold tooth.

The question halted Johnnie. Such a wonderful idea occurred to him. The dollar was his own, to do with as he liked. And what he wanted most——

"I'm goin' to buy some more books with it," he answered. And turned aside to one of the great piles.

There was more laughter at that, and a burst of low conversation. Johnnie paid no attention to it, but appealed to the red-headed man. "What's the best book y' got?" he inquired, with quite the air of a seasoned shopper.

Again there was laughter. But it seemed to be not only kind but complimentary—as if once more he had said something clever or amusing. However, Johnnie kept his attention on the red-headed man.

"Well, I'm afraid no two people would ever agree as to which is our best book," said the latter. "But if you'll tell me what you like, I'll do my best to find something that'll suit you."

Johnnie, glancing about, reflected that, without question, Cis's speller had come from this very room! The arithmetic, too!

"Got any spellers to-day?" he inquired casually—just to show them all that he knew a thing or two about books.

"In several languages," returned the man, quite calmly.

"I like Aladdin better," announced Johnnie. Then trying not to sound too proud, "I got it here with me right now." Whereupon he reached into the baggy shirt and drew forth Mrs. Kukor's gift.

"Bless his heart!" cried a woman. "He does love them!"

To Johnnie this seemed a foolish remark. Love them? Who did not? "If you got another as good as this one," he went on, "I'd like t' buy it."

The red-headed man took Aladdin. Then he shook his head. The group was moving away now, and he and Johnnie were to themselves. "I'm afraid this book would be hard to equal," he said earnestly. "They aren't writing any more just like it—which is a pity. But you stay here and I'll see what I can find." He gave Aladdin back, and hurried off.

There was a chair behind Johnnie. He sat down, his two precious books and the dollar on his knees. Then once more he looked up and around, marveling.

He was aware that several of those who had been in the group were now talking together at a little distance. They seemed a trifle excited. The red-headed man joined them for a moment, listened to what they had to say, and took some money from each of them (Johnnie concluded that all were bookbuyers like himself) before hurrying on between two high walls of books. In anticipation of more literary possessions, Johnnie now slipped his two volumes inside the shirt, one to the right, one to the left, so that they would not meet and mar each other.

When the red-headed man came back, he brought three books, all new and handsome. "I think you'll like these," he declared. "See—this one's called The Legends of King Arthur and his Knights, and this one is The Last of the Mohicans, and here's Treasure Island."

"Much obliged," said Johnnie, heartily. His eyes shone as he gathered the books to him. His one thought now was to get away and read, read, read. Quickly he proffered the dollar bill.

"Oh, you keep the money," said the red-headed man "You'll need it for something else. Take the books—compliments of the house!"

"No!" Johnnie was aghast. He was used to paying for what he got—his food, his bed, his rent. "Oh, gee! I want to pay, Mister. I want 'em to be all mine.—But is there any change comin' back t' me?"

Once more he heard laughter—from behind the pile of books nearest him; then that woman's voice again: "Oh, the darling! The darling!" Even as she spoke, she moved into sight.

Johnnie had heard ladies speak about him in just that way before. He knew that if they came near to him it was to lay hands on his yellow mop. He wanted none of that sort of thing here, in this glorious house full of books, before all these men.

"Your books came out just a dollar even," replied the red-headed man.

"Thank y', Mister!" Johnnie, his new purchases clasped tight, sidled quickly toward the street.

"Sha'n't I wrap 'em up for you?" called the other.

Johnnie was already revolving in his quarter-section of the remarkable door. He shook his head. Going sidewise, he could see that quite a few of those inside were still watching him. He flashed at them one of his radiant smiles. Then the door disgorged him upon a step, the great Avenue received him, and he trotted off, dropping his books into his shirt, one by one, as he went, precisely as Aladdin had stuffed his clothes with amethysts, sapphires and rubies.

Before he reached the next block he was fairly belted with books; he was armored with them, and looked as if he were wearing a life preserver under his folds and pleats.

The sun was still high, the air warm enough for him—if not for a fur-collared millionaire. And Johnnie did not feel too hungry. His one wish was to absorb those five books. He began to keep an eye out for a vacant building.

"My goodness!" he exclaimed. "Think of me runnin' into the place where all the books come from!"



CHAPTER IX

ONE-EYE

HE left the Avenue, turning east. Now all plans concerning Broadway were given up; also, he felt no anxiety about getting lost. For he went at random.

Yet he was businesslike, and walked rapidly. No window, however beautiful, lured him to pause. He did not waste a single minute. And soon he was gazing up at a really imposing and colossal structure which, big as it looked (for it seemed to occupy a whole block), was plainly not in use. At one corner the building mounted to a peak. On going all the way around it, he discovered smaller peaks at each of the other corners. There were any number of entrances, too; and, of course, fire escapes.

It suited him finely. On one side of this old palace—for he was sure it could be nothing short of a palace—was a flight of steps which led up to a small door. This entrance was an inconspicuous one, which could not be said of the several porticoed entrances. Beside the steps, in the angle made by the meeting of the wall with them, was conveniently set a small, pine box. Johnnie had hunted a vacant building with the intention of entering it. But now he decided to read first, and steal into the palace later, under cover of the dark. Down he sat upon the box, out of the way of a breeze that was wafting a trifle too freshly through the street.

One by one he took out the three books he had just bought, this in order to give them a closer scrutiny than the store had afforded him; and to start with he met that "glorious company, the flower of men," who made up the Table Round, and who, if the colored pictures of them were to be believed, made his mounted policeman of an hour before seem a sorry figure. And their names were as splendid as their photographs—Launcelot, and Gawain, Gareth and Tristram and Galahad. Remembering that he was called Johnnie, he felt quite sick.

When, after poring over the half-dozen illustrations, he was forced to the conclusion that nothing could surpass the knights of King Arthur, he opened The Last of the Mohicans and found himself captured, heart and soul, by the even more enticing Uncas and his fellows, superb bronze creatures, painted and feathered, and waving tomahawks that far outshone any blunt lance.

He had to change his mind again. For bringing himself to tuck away his Indians and fetch forth Treasure Island, he was rewarded by the sight of a piratical crew who easily surpassed even the redmen. The fiercest of these pirates, a gentleman by the name of Long John Silver, was without question the pick of the lot. To begin with, Mr. Silver undoubtedly belonged to the New York family of peg legs, which, of course, brought him nearer than his brother pirates. However, what especially recommended him was a pistol-filled belt.

"Gee! I'm glad I got mine!" Johnnie declared, since the chief-pirate's belt was strikingly like the one binding in Big Tom's cast-off clothes; and he willingly forgot what the strap of leather had done to him in the past in realizing its wonderful possibilities for the future.

Finally he was ready to begin reading. He was loyal to his friend Aladdin then, whom he had left, on the fatal stroke of twelve, in rather dire straits. The Oriental wonder book on his knees, he resumed the enthralling story, his lips and fingers moving, and—in the excitement of it all—his misty eyebrows twisting like two caterpillars.

Pedestrians hurried past him, motor vehicles and surface-cars sped by—for Fourth Avenue lay in front; but what he saw was Aladdin in chains; Aladdin before the executioner; Aladdin pardoned, yet aghast over the loss of his palace and the beloved Buddir al Buddoor, and ready to take his own life.

The afternoon went swiftly. Evening came. But the nearest street lamp was lighted in advance of the dark. Engrossed by the awful drama transpiring in Africa, where Aladdin and his Princess were plotting to rid themselves of the magician, Johnnie did not know when lamplight took the place of daylight.

The Princess, who began to be tired with this impertinent declaration of the African magician, interrupted him and said, "Let us drink first, and then say what you will afterwards;" at the same time she set the cup to her lips, while the African magician, who was eager to get his wine off first, drank up the very last drop. In finishing it, he had reclined his head back to show his eagerness, and remained some time in that state. The Princess kept the cup at her lips, till she saw his eyes turn in his head——

"Hurrah!" cried Johnnie, relieved at this fortunate end of the crisis, for his very hair was damp with anxiety. "His eyes've turned in his head!"

"Wal, by the Great Horn Spoon!"

This strange exclamation, drawled in a nasal tone, came from the steps at his back. He started up, jerking sidewise to get out of reach of the hands that belonged to the voice, and clutching his book to him. But as he faced the speaker, who was peering down at him from the top of the steps, wonder took the place of apprehension.

For to his astonished and enraptured gaze was vouchsafed a most interesting man—a man far and beyond and above anybody he had ever before beheld in the flesh. This person was tall and slender, and wore a blue shirt, a plaid vest hanging open but kept together with a leather watchchain, a wide, high, gray hat, and—most wonderful of all—a pair of breeches which, all down the front, were as hairy as any dog!

It was the breeches that gave the stranger his startling and admirable appearance—the breeches and his face. For directly under the hat, which was worn askew, was one round, greenish eye, set at the upper end of a nose that was like a triangle of leather. The eye held the geographical center of the whole countenance, this because its owner kept his head tipped, precisely as if he had a stiff neck. Under the leathery nose, which seemed to have been cut from the same welt as the watchchain, was a drooping, palish mustache, hiding a mouth that had lost too many teeth. As for the other eye, it was brushed aside under the band of the hat.

"Gee!" breathed Johnnie. Wearing fur trousers instead of a fur collar, here, without doubt, was a new kind of millionaire!

The latter took a cigar out of an upper vest pocket and worried one end of it with a tooth. "It's half-pas' seven, sonny," he said.

Johnnie backed another step. Half-past seven gave him a swift vision of the flat—Grandpa asleep, Barber pacing the splintery floor in a rage, Cis weeping at the window, Mrs. Kukor waddling about, talking with tongue and hands. He had no mind to be made a part of that picture. He resolved to answer no questions, while with a dexterous movement he slipped Aladdin into his shirt and got ready to run.

The other now sat down, scratched a match nonchalantly on a step, and let the light shine into that single green eye as he set an end of the cigar afire; after which he proceeded to blow smoke through his nose in a masterly fashion, following up that feat with a series of perfect smoke rings.

Still on his guard, Johnnie studied the smoker. The big gray hat came to a peak—like the highest corner of the empty palace. Below the hairy trousers the lower parts of a pair of black boots shone so brightly that they carried reflections even at that late hour. The boots were tapered off by spurs.

What was there about this man that made him seem somehow familiar? Johnnie puzzled over it. And decided at last, correctly enough, as it turned out, that the explanation lay in those shaggy trousers.

He was not afraid to make an inquiry. "Mister," he began politely, "where did y' buy your pants?"

The effect of this question was startling. The man pushed back his hat, threw up his head, rescued the burning cigar, then emitted an almost catlike yowl. For some minutes several people had been watching him from a respectful distance. Now, hearing the yowl, these onlookers drew near. He rose then, instantly sober, set the hat forward, descended the steps, and held out a friendly left hand to Johnnie.

"Come on, sonny," he coaxed. "Ain't it eatin' time? Let's go and pur-chase some grub."

Johnnie, for all that he had been practically a recluse these past several years, had, nevertheless, the metropolite's inborn indifference to the passerby. He had scarcely noticed the steadily increasing group before the steps. Now he ignored them all. He was hungry. That invitation to partake of food was welcome.

He advanced and held out a hand. The one-eyed man grasped it, descended the last step or two, pushed his way through the crowd without looking to right or left, and led Johnnie down the street at such a pace that the bare feet were put to the trot—which was not too fast, seeing that supper lay somewhere ahead.

Johnnie felt proud and flattered. He made up his mind to be seen talking to his tall companion as they fared along. "Guess you're not a longshoreman," he said, to begin the conversation.

"Me?" drawled the other; then, mysteriously, "Wal, sonny, I'll tell y': if I am, I ain't never yet found it out!"

Then silence for half a block. Johnnie studied his next remark. The direct way was the most natural to him. He tried another query. "And—and what do y' do?" he asked.

"Do?"—this stranger seemed to have Grandpa's habit of repeating the last word. "Oh, I val-lay a hoss."

Johnnie was no wiser than before, but he felt it good manners to appear enlightened. "You—you do that back there?" he ventured next.

"Yeppie. In the Garden."

Now Johnnie was hopelessly lost. Val-lay meant nothing, hoss even less; as for a garden, he vaguely understood what that was: a place where beans grew, and potatoes; yes, and wizen-faced prunes. But though he had circled about the neighborhood considerably since leaving the bookstore, he had caught no glimpse of any garden—except that one belonging to Aladdin. Ah, that was it! This strange man's garden was down a flight of steps!

"Do you grow cabbages in your garden?" he asked, "or—or diamonds?"

"How's that?" demanded the other; then as if he had recovered from a momentary surprise, "Oh, a little of both."

"Both!"

"But—but this ain't what you'd call a good year for diamonds. Nope. Too many cutworms."

Johnnie wanted to ask if all gardeners wore hairy trousers. Then thought of a subject even more interesting. "Mister,"—he put a note of genuine sympathy into his voice—"how'd you come t' lose your eye?"

"My eye?"—Grandpa's habit again. "Wal, this is how"— He frowned with the eye he had left, and pursed his lips till his mustache stood out fearsomely.

"Yes?" encouraged Johnnie, whose mind was picturing all sorts of exciting events in which the tall man, as the hero, fought and was injured, yet conquered his enemies.

"Sonny," the other went on sadly, "I jes' natu'lly got my eye pinched in the door."

Pinched in the door! Johnnie stared. Pinched in the door? How could that happen? What might a man be doing that such an accident should come to pass? He put his free hand to one of his own eyes, fingering it inquiringly.

Before he could come to any conclusion, the one-eyed man had halted before the blazing, glassed-in front of a restaurant that fairly dazzled the sight. It was, as Johnnie saw, such a place as only millionaires could afford to frequent. In the very front of it, behind that plate window, stood men in white, wearing spotless caps, who were cooking things in plain view of the street. And inside—for the one-eyed man now boldly opened a door and entered, drawing Johnnie after him—were more men in white, and women similarly garbed. The high walls of the great room were white too, like the hall of a sultan's palace. And seated at long tables were splendidly attired men and women, enjoying their supper as calmly as if all this magnificence were nothing to them—nothing, though the tables were of marble!

However, every man and woman in the wonderful place showed marked excitement on the appearance of Johnnie and his escort. They stopped eating. And how they stared! They bent to all sides, whispering. For a moment, Johnnie felt sure that, ragged as he was, the palace did not want him, and that he was about to be ordered out. He hung back, wishing with all his heart that he had done his hanging back earlier, outside the door, for instance.

Then, relief; for he recognized that all the interest was kindly. One of the ladies in white—a beautiful, stately person—showed them grandly to chairs at either side of a table; a second lady brought them each a glass of ice water, and condescended to listen to their wants in the supper line. About them people smiled cordially.

The one-eyed man was now bareheaded. And Johnnie, just as he was leaning back, prepared to enjoy himself to the full, suddenly noted, and with a pang, that his host, shorn of his headgear, was far less attractive in appearance than when covered; did not seem the strange, rakish, picturesque, almost wild figure of a moment before, but civilized, slick, and mild.

For one thing, that shut eye was in full view, which subtracted from the brigandish look of his countenance; for another, the shaggy trousers were—naturally—in total eclipse. Then he had mouse-colored hair which matched his mustache, whereas it should have been black—or bright red. To make matters worse, the hair had recently been wet-combed. It was also fine and thin, especially over the top of the head, from where it had been brought straight down upon the forehead in a long, smooth, shining bang which (and this not a quarter-inch too soon) turned to sweep left. Contrasting with the oily appearance of the bang were some hairs at the very crown of the head. These—a few—leaned this way and that, making a wild tuft.

Johnnie wished with his whole heart that the stranger would again put on his hat.

Another feature thrust itself upon Johnnie's notice. Out from the front of his host's throat, to the ruination of such scant good looks as he had, protruded an Adam's apple that was as large and tanned and tough-looking as his nose. On that brown prominence a number of long pale hairs had their roots. These traveled now high, now low, as the one-eyed man drank deep of the ice water. And Johnnie felt that he understood the sad quiet of this queer, tall person. In his case the stork had been indeed cruel.

The hat was swinging from a near-by hook—one of a double line of hooks down the long room. Under the hat was a sign. Johnnie read it; then centered his stare on the hat. At any moment he expected to witness something extraordinary. That was because across the placard, in neat, black letters, were the words: Watch your Hat and Coat.

He reached to touch the one-eyed man. "Say, Mister!" he whispered, "Y' see what it says? Well, what'll happen if we watch?"

"Huh!" ejaculated the other, slewing that one green eye round to glance upward. "That's jes' it! If y' watch, nuthin'll happen!"

It was a good thing to know at the moment. For the second lady was back, bringing supper with her—a smoking dish of mingled meat and vegetables, another of pork and beans, a cup of coffee, a glass of milk, an orange, and bread and butter.

Butter! Johnnie could scarcely believe his eyes. He almost thought this was one of Buckle's meals, and that the butter would melt, figuratively speaking, before his longing look. But it stayed, a bright pat, as yellow as his own hair, on a doll's dish of a plate. And as Johnnie had not tasted butter for a very long time, he proceeded now, after the manner of the male, to clear that cunning little dish by eating the choicest thing first.

As for the one-eyed man, his knife, held in his left hand, was going up and down between the dish of beans and his mouth with mechanical regularity. At the bean dish, he covered the long blade with a ruddy heap. Then balancing it all nicely, he swung it ceiling-ward, met it half-way by a quick duck of the mouse-covered head, and swept it clean with a dextrous, all-enveloping movement.

Johnnie was hungry too. The butter gone, along with its complement of bread, he attacked his share of the meat and vegetables, using, however (which was to Cis's credit), a fork. The dish was delicious. He forgot even the placard.

So far the one-eyed man had proven to be anything but a talkative person. Under the circumstances this was just as well. Johnnie could not have shared just then in a conservation. Twice during the meal he reached down and let out the strap a hole or two. And for the first time in his life he was grateful for the roominess of Barber's old clothes.

Half an hour, and Johnnie was, as he himself expressed it, "stuffed like a sausage." The orange, he dropped into his shirt-band to find a place with the books, there being no space for it internally.

"Full up, eh?" demanded the one-eyed man, mopping at his mustache so hard with a paper napkin that Johnnie expected to see the hairy growth come away from its moorings under the leathery nose.

"It was a feast!" pronounced Johnnie, borrowing from the language of his friend Aladdin. A moment later he gasped as he saw his host carelessly ring a fifty-cent piece upon the gorgeous marble of the table top. Then the meal had cost so much as that! As he trotted doorward in the wake of the spurred heels, his boy's conscience faintly smote him. He almost felt that he had eaten too much.

"My goodness!" he murmured, his glance missing the variegated mosaic of the floor.

But still another moment, and the one-eyed man had halted at a desk which stood close to the front door, and was throwing down a one-dollar bill, together with some silver.

Johnnie knew something was wrong. His host was forgetful, absent-minded. He realized that he must interfere. "You jus' paid the lady!" he warned in a hasty whisper.

The other nodded sadly as he settled the big hat. "Yeppie," he returned. "But y' see, sonny, it's this-away: if you got jes' one eye, w'y, they make y' pay twicet!"

Another gasp. It was so grossly unfair!

However it had all proved to him beyond a doubt that here was a man of unlimited wealth. On several occasions Uncle Albert's millionaire had treated Johnnie to candy and apples. But now the riches of that person seemed pitifully trivial.

They fared forth and away in the same order as they had come.

But not so silently. Food, it seemed, was what could rouse the one-eyed man to continued speech. He began to ask questions, all of them to the point, most of them embarrassing.

"Say, what in the name o' Sam Hill y' got cached inside that shirt?"—this was the first one.

"Books," returned Johnnie, promptly, "and the orange."

"Y' kinda cotton t' books, eh?" the other next observed.

"Not cotton," replied Johnnie, politely. "They're made of paper."

"Y' don't tell me?—And what y' want me t' call y'?"

"My—my—my," began Johnnie, trying to think and speak at the same time, with small success in either direction. Then feeling himself pressed for time, and helpless, he fell back upon the best course, which was the simple truth. "My name's Johnnie Smith," he added.

The truth was too simple to be believed, "Aw, git out!" laughed the one-eyed man, with a comical lift of the mustache. "And I s'pose y' live with the Vanderbilt fambly, eh?"

Johnnie's eyes sparkled. There was in the question a certain something—an ignoring of bare facts—which made him believe that this man and he were kindred souls.

"No, I don't live with 'em," he hastened to say. "But I talk to Mister Vanderbilt ev'ry day on the tel'phone."

The stranger seemed neither doubtful nor amazed. Johnnie liked him better and better. Taking a fresh hold of the other's horny hand, he chattered on: "I talked to Mister Astor yesterday. He asked me t' go ridin' with him, but I had t' take a trip t' Niagarry."

"Hope y' didn't hurt his feelin's none,"—the tone was grave: that one green eye looked anxious.

Johnnie only shook his head. He did not care to go further with the discussion of the Astor-Smith friendship.

However, the one-eyed man himself turned the conversation, "Goin' back home t'night?" he wanted to know.

Johnnie raised startled eyes. "N-n-no," he returned. "I-i-if I was to, I'd have to take a terrible lickin'."

"Mm." The one-eyed man seemed to understand; then, presently, "Your paw?—or your maw?"

"No relation at all," protested Johnnie. "Just the man where I live."

"He feeds y' O. K.," put in the other. "I was noticin' back yonder in the chuck-house how plump y' are."

Johnnie said nothing. There were things he could tell, if he wanted to, which had to do with comparisons between Aunt Sophie's table and Big Tom's. But these things would contradict the one-eyed man; and Johnnie knew from experience that grown-ups do not like to be contradicted.

Just ahead was that great palace, lifting dark towers against the glowing night sky. If the one-eyed man lived there, if the palace actually contained a garden (and it seemed large enough to contain any number of gardens), Johnnie wanted, if possible, to spend some time under that vast roof. So it was wise not to say anything that might bring him into disfavor; especially when what he wanted most now was shelter and a reading light.

He grasped the other's hand firmly and flashed up what was intended for a beguiling smile. "He don't ever feed me like you do," he declared, with dazzling diplomacy.

The compliment was grandly passed over. "But he shore dresses y' tiptop!" was the next assertion.

At that, some inkling of the other's real meaning came to Johnnie. He tried, but in vain, to catch that single eye. But even in the half light it was busy taking in every detail of Big Tom's shirt and trousers. "Y'—y' think so?" Johnnie ventured, ready to laugh.

"Think so!" cried the one-eyed man, spiritedly. "W'y, he must jes' about go broke at it! Lookee! Twicet as much shirt as y' need, and at least five times as much pants!"

Certainly there was no denying the statement. However, there was another side to Barber's generosity that Johnnie longed to discuss. Yet once more he decided to invite no argument. "It'll be worse if I had t' wear girl's clothes," was what he returned, philosophically.

The street was dark just there. He was not able to mark the facial expression which now accompanied a curious sound from the region of the Adam's apple. But when the light at the palace corner was reached, a quick glance showed a stern visage, with mouth set hard and that green eye burning. And Johnnie's heart went out of him, for now he doubted again.

They paused at the foot of those steps. "Do y' go t' school?" asked the one-eyed man.

Johnnie shook his head. "He don't let me," he declared. But he was as careful as ever to speak with no bitterness. Without question, in this tall stranger Big Tom had an ally.

"He don't let y'," drawled the other. "Don't let y' go t' school. Hm!—Say, y' know, I think I'd like that feller!"

He must get away! Suddenly throwing all the weight of himself and his books into the effort, Johnnie tried to pull free of his companion, using both hands.

The one-eyed man held on. His grasp was like steel—yes, even like Big Tom's grasp. "Aw, sonny!" he cried, as if suddenly repentent. Then seizing Johnnie under both arms, he swung him to the top of those steps.

That same moment wide doors opened before them, and a vast, dim place was disclosed to the boy's astonished view. "Why—! What—! Oh—!" he marveled.

The one-eyed man shut the doors by retreating and giving them a push with his back. Then he thrust Johnnie toward a second flight of steps. These led down to a basement only partly lighted, full of voices, tramplings, and strange smells. Frightened, Johnnie made out the upraised heads of horses—lines of them! He could see a group of men too, each as big-hatted and shaggy-trousered as this one who still had him about his middle.

A great cry went up from that group—"Yip! yip! yip! yip! yee-e-e-e-eow! One-Eye!"

"Oh, Mister," breathed Johnnie, "is it the circus?"



CHAPTER X

THE SURPRISE

"GIT on t' the size of it! . . . . Oh, my Aunt Sally! . . . . Lookee what the cat brung in! . . . . Boys, ketch me whilst I faint! . . . . Am I seein' it, or ain't I—w'ich? . . . . Say! they's more down cellar in a teacup!"

Johnnie understood that it was all about himself, and even guessed that he looked a little queer to these men who appeared so strange to him. They were gathered around in a boisterous circle, exclaiming and laughing. He revolved slowly, examining each. Some were stocky and some spindling. Two or three were almost boyish; the others, as old as One-Eye. But in the matter of dress, one was exactly like every other one—at least so far as could be judged by a small boy in a moment so charged with excitement.

He felt no resentment at their banter, sensing that it was kindly. He liked them. He liked the great, mysterious basement. He felt precisely like another Aladdin. No magical smoke had gone up, and no stone had been lifted. Yet here he was in a new and entrancing world!

He would have liked to stay right there at the foot of the stairs for a long time, in order to give adequate study to every one of the shaggy men. But One-Eye suddenly grasped him by the hand again and led him away—down a long, curving alley that took them past a score of horses. Each horse was in a stall of its own, and under each was straw as yellow as Johnnie's own hair. Electric bulbs lit the whole place grandly, disclosing saddles and straps and other horse gear, hung at intervals along the alley.

In one of his swift visions, he now saw himself as a member of this fascinating crew, wearing, like them, long, hairy breeches, a wide hat, spurs, and a neckerchief, and setting gaily forth in a cavalcade to be admired by a marveling city!

Far along, where the alley swerved sharply, One-Eye halted him. Here was a vacant stall, except that it was half-filled with straw. A coat hung in it, and in the iron feed box in one corner nested a pair of boots. Plainly this was a camping place, and Johnnie thrilled as they turned into it, and he stood almost waist deep in clean bedding.

"Have a chair," insisted One-Eye, with a gentle shoulder pat.

Johnnie sat. Even as he went down he felt that he really was coming to understand this new friend better. Of course there was no chair. It was just the other's way of saying things—an odd, funny way. His back braced against a stall side, he grinned across at One-Eye, now squatted opposite him, and smoking, this in splendid disregard of a sign which read plainly: No Smoking.

Johnnie did not speak. His experience with Big Tom had taught him at least one valuable lesson: to be sparing with his tongue. So he waited the pleasure of his companion, sunk in a trough of the straw, ringed round with books, his thumbs in his palms and his fingers shut tight upon the thumbs through sheer emotion, which also showed in two red spots on his cheeks.

"Reckon y' don't want t' go out no more t'night," observed One-Eye, after a moment.

"No." Johnnie held his breath, hoping for an invitation.

It came. "Thought y' wouldn't. So camp right here, and to-morra we'll powwow."

"All right." Johnnie's voice shook with relief and delight; with pride, too, at being thus honored. He rolled up the coat for a pillow when One-Eye rose and threw it down to him; and being offered a horse blanket, pulled it up to his brows and lay back obediently, to the peril of the orange, which was under him, and so to his own discomfort.

"So long, sonny." The single green eye gleamed down at him almost affectionately from under the wide brim.

"Thank y'," returned Johnnie.

For a long time he lay without moving, this for fear One-Eye might come back. When he took his books out of his shirt, he did not read, though the stall was brightly lighted, only watched a pair of nervous brown ears that kept showing above the stall-side in front of him. Something was troubling him very much. It seemed to be something in his forehead; but it was in his throat most of all; though that spot at the end of his breastbone felt none too well.

Whatever it was, it had a great deal to do with Cis (the mere thought of her made his eyes smart) and with Grandpa. Freedom and new friends he had; more books, too, than he could read in a year—or so it seemed to him as he measured the pile under the orange. Then why, having the best bed he had known since the one with the blue knobs at Aunt Sophie's, why could he not go to sleep? or, if he was not sleepy, why did he not want to read? or summon to him Aladdin, or David with Goliath, or Mr. Rockefeller?

He pulled hard at his hair.

The truth was, he was learning something about himself. He was finding out that to get away from danger was only part of his problem: the other part was to get away from his own thoughts, his feelings—in short, his conscience. For try as he might, as he lay there, he could not keep the wheel chair out of his sight!

It stood before him in the yellow bedding, and the little old man seated in it kept holding out trembling hands. The thin, bearded face was distorted pathetically, and tears streamed from the faded eyes. If Johnnie turned his head away from the chair, he met other eyes—eyes young and blue and gentle. Poor Cis, so shy always, and silent; so loving and good!

Down into One-Eye's coat went Johnnie's small nose, and so hard that to this unfreckled feature was instantly transferred the pain in his forehead and throat and breast; and his hurt was for a moment changed into the physical, which was easier to bear. Yes, they were left behind alone, those two who were so dear to him.

Even with the horse blanket over both ears he could hear the wheel chair going from the stove to the window, from the window to the hall door, while the old soldier whimpered and called. He could hear Cis call, too—his name. But it was Grandpa who hurt him the most. Cis was quite grown-up, and had girl friends, and her work, and the freedom to go to and from it. But Grandpa!—his old heart was wrapped up in his Johnnie. So childish that he was virtually a little boy, he had for Johnnie the respect and affection that a little boy gives to a bigger one.

Next, bright, shining, birdlike eyes were smiling at him—Mrs. Kukor! The horse blanket shook. At either side of Johnnie's nose a damp spot came on One-Eye's coat.

But fortunately the trembling and the tears were seen by no human eyes, only by a brown pair that belonged to those brown ears. And presently, when the nearest lights went out, leaving Johnnie's retreat in gloom, the pictures that smote him changed to those of a sleeping dream, and he wandered on and on through a vast white garden that grew hats and coats—in a double row.

When he wakened, the lights were on again. As he rose he made up his mind to win One-Eye's consent to his remaining in this big palace—which had turned out to be a horse palace. "'Cause I dassn't go back!" he decided. The enormity of what he had done in leaving the flat and staying away a whole night, he now realized. A creepy feeling traveled up and down his spine at the thought of it, and he shook to his calloused heels.

Then with a grin, he remembered that no one knew where he belonged. Furthermore, as One-Eye did not believe that Johnnie Smith was his real name, he had only to hint that he was somebody else, which would throw his new friend completely off the track.

He leaned against the stall and pulled at his hair, considering that problem of staying on. To his way of thinking, there was only one good scheme by which to win the approbation of anybody, and that scheme was work. So when he had tugged at his hair till the last straw was out of it, he pattered off down the runway, determined to find some task that needed to be done.

The great place appeared strangely deserted as to men. So he came across no one whom he could help. As for the occupants of the giant circle of stalls, he did not know what service he could offer them. He felt fairly sure that horses' faces were not washed of a morning. And they had all been fed. But why not comb their hair? Searching up and down for a possible comb, he spied a bucket. Then he knew what he could do.

The job was not without its drawbacks. For one thing, the horses were afraid of him. They wrenched at their hitching-chains when he came close to their heels, or blew noisily, or bunched themselves into the forward ends of their stalls, turning on him startled, white-rimmed eyes. He offered the dripping bucket only to the more quiet ones.

He worked his way down the long line that stood nearest the spigot, now staggering and splashing as he lugged a full pail, now scampering back happily with an empty one. And he was beside a stairway, and on the point of taking in a drink to the horse stalled closest to the entrance, when he heard several voices, the creak of doors, and footsteps. So he paused, the bucket swinging from both hands, until half a dozen pairs of shaggy legs appeared just above him. Then as the big hats were bobbing into view, so that he knew his labors could be seen and appreciated, he faced round with the pail and entered the stall.

The next moment there sounded a dull bang, followed by the loud ring of tin, a breathless cry, and the swish of flying water—as Johnnie came hurtling headlong out of the stall, the bucket preceding him, a shod hoof in his immediate wake, and the contents of the pail showering in all directions. There was a second bang also dull, as he landed against the bottom step of the stairs at the very feet of the horrified men.

A chorus of cries went up. But Johnnie's voice was not a part of it. Hurt, winded, and thoroughly scared, he lay in a little ragged heap, a book thrusting up the big shirt here and there, so that he looked to have broken not a few bones.

"That flea-bit mare!" charged One-Eye, dropping Johnnie's breakfast and picking up the boy.

"Pore kid! . . . . And he was workin'! . . . . Is he hurt bad? . . . . That ongrateful bronc'! . . . . Totin' the blamed thing water, too!"—thus they sympathized with him as he swayed against One-Eye, who was steadying him on his feet.

Breath and tears came at the same moment—the latter in spite of him. But he wept in anger, in disappointment and chagrin and resentment, rather than in pain. The books having now fallen into place in the pouch of the shirt, it was evident there were no fractures.

"Shore of it," pronounced One-Eye. "I've felt him all over."

Furthermore, a book had undoubtedly received the full force of the implanted hoof; and save for a darkening patch on Johnnie's left arm, he was as good as ever, though slightly damp as to both spirits and clothing. For it was his feelings that were the more injured. His proffer of a drink had been repaid by an ignominious kick that had landed upon him under the very eyes of those whom he most wanted to impress.

"Now what'd Mister Vanderbilt say if he knowed!" mourned One-Eye; "or Mister Astor! They'd be plumb sore on me!—My! my! my!"

These remarks shifted Johnnie's inner vision to other scenes, and having already guessed that he was not broken in two, he considered One-Eye's plaint with something of a twinkle in his eyes, and fell once more to dragging at his hair.

Willing hands now refilled the battered bucket and washed his tear-wet face. After which One-Eye recovered the breakfast—an egg sandwich and a banana—and proceeded to lay down the law.

"With that hurt arm o' your'n, sonny," he began, "it's back to home, sweet home. And if that feller, Tom, licks y', w'y, I'll jes' nat'ally lick him."

"You couldn't lick him," informed Johnnie, turning his sandwich about in search for a location thin enough to admit of a first bite. "He's the strongest longshoreman in N'York. He can carry five sacks of flour on his back, and one under both arms."

Disdainfully One-Eye lifted his lone brow, and he passed over the remark. "The point is," he continued, "that if y' ever figger t' go back, now's the time."

Johnnie saw the argument. And to his own surprise he found himself willing to go. "Prob'ly Big Tom'll only pull my ear," he said philosophically. "And he won't do that much, even, if—if you'll go along."

"Will I!" cried One-Eye. "Wal, it'd take a twenty-mule team t' holt me back!"

"Honest?" For this fellow was a wag, and there was no telling what he really meant to do.

"If I don't, I'll eat my shaps!" promised One-Eye.

"Then I guess you better tie up my arm," went on Johnnie, which bit of inspired diplomacy sent the whole sympathizing group into whoops of laughter.

"Ain't he the ticket?" demanded one man.

One-Eye 'lowed that he was.

The tying was done. First the purplish spot was swathed in white; and as the injury was below the raveling edge of the sleeve, the bandage was in plain sight, and carried conviction with it. Next a sling was made out of a blue-patterned handkerchief of One-Eye's. Proudly Johnnie contemplated the dressing. Here was not only insurance against a whipping, but that which lent him a peculiar and desirable distinction.

"You'll go all the way up with me?" he asked One-Eye. (Now was the time to make sure of the future.) "Y' see it's Sunday. He'll be home."

"Up and in," vowed the latter. "Come along!"

There were hearty good-bys to be said, and Johnnie had his well arm thoroughly shaken before One-Eye helped him climb the stairs. He would gladly have prolonged his leave-taking. For one thing, he had not half inspected that mammoth basement—not to mention the huge, dim place overhead. And the horse that had kicked him merited a second look. But "Let's go whilst the goin's good," counseled One-Eye. So Johnnie fell in beside him, holding well to the front that interesting bandage.

"Y' live far?" One-Eye wanted to know. This was when they were out by that lamp post which had lighted Johnnie's reading.

"Clear 'way down to the other end of Broadway almost," boasted Johnnie. "'N' then you go over towards the Manhattan Bridge."

"That so! Clear way down!—And how'd y' git up this far?" That green eye was as keen as a blade.

"Rode up—in a' automobile." Johnnie did not like to spoil the picture by explaining that the automobile was a truck, and that he had found it strewn with chicken-feathers.

"All right," returned One-Eye. "Then we'll ride down." Inserting a knuckle into his mouth between two widely separated teeth that were like lone sentinels, he blew a high, piercing summons. At the same time, he swung his arm at a passing taxicab, stopping it almost electrically. And the thing was done.

As the taxicab rolled to the curb, Johnnie turned his back upon it for a last look at the palace. How huge it was! "And I'll bet the Afercan magician couldn't even move it," he decided. He promised himself that one day he would come back to it, and climb to its several towers.

"A-a-a-a-all aboard!" One-Eye lit a large, magnificently banded cigar. He handed a second, fully as thick and splendid, to the staring, but respectful, individual who was to drive them—a young, dark man, very dirty, and in his shirt-sleeves (he was seated upon his coat), who seemed so impressed by the elder of his passengers as to be beyond speech. "Over t' Broadway, and down," instructed One-Eye. "We'll tell y' when t' whoa."

Calmly Johnnie climbed into the taxicab, and carelessly he took his seat. Then the car plunged westward before a reeking cloud of its own smoke. Under way, he elevated that small nose of his and drank deep of the—to him—good smell of gasoline. Had not his Aunt Sophie often pronounced it clean and healthy?

However, despite this upward tilting, he did not appear to be at all proud of the fact that he was riding; and One-Eye fell to watching him, that green eye round with wonder. For here was this little ragamuffin seated high and dry in a first class taxi, and speeding through the city in style, yet with the supreme indifference of a young millionaire!

"City younguns shore take the bak'ry!" One-Eye observed admiringly, aiming the remark at his driver, who sat somewhat screwed about on his seat in such a way that he could, from block to block, as some other car slowed his machine, regale his astonished eyes with those fur-fronted breeches.

"Oh, this banana'll be enough," politely returned Johnnie, having caught the word bakery but missed the real meaning of the statement. Calmly as ever, he divested the fruit of its skin and cast the long peelings upon the floor of the cab. In his time he had sat for hours at a stretch in the regal limousines of Uncle Albert's rich man; and he regarded a taxicab without awe.

One-Eye chuckled.

Presently Johnnie was dragging at his mop as he ate. Which was proof that he was meditating. Indeed he was thinking so hard that he failed to note the large amount of attention which he and his companion were attracting. So far he had not mentioned Grandpa to this friendly stranger—this for fear of harming his own case, of hastening his return home. Now the omission somehow appeared to be almost a denial of the truth. Nor had he spoken of Cis. All this called for correction before the flat was reached.

By way of clearing up the whole matter, he began with an introduction of Cis. "There's a girl lives where I do," he announced casually.

"Y' don't say! Sister? Cousin? She must 'a' missed y'."

"No relation at all. But she's awful nice—I like her. She's sixteen, goin' on seventeen, and I'm goin' t' steal her away soon's ever I grow up."

"I git y'.—Say, Mister, go slow with this gasoline bronc' of your'n! Y' know I'd like t' see little old Cheyenne oncet more before I check in,"—this to the chauffeur, as the taxicab shaved the flank of a street car going at high speed, then caromed to rub axles with a brother machine.

"You'll meet her," promised Johnnie, who did not think they were going too fast, and who had completely forgotten it was Sunday, which meant that Cis would be at home without fail; "'cause once before, when I burnt my hand, she stayed away from work two whole days. Big Tom never lets Grandpa be alone." (He thought that rather a neat way to bring in the old man.)

With a sidewise tipping of the big hat, One-Eye directed a searching look to the bare head at his elbow. "Other days, you take care of said ole man," he returned.

Johnnie nodded. "I like him."

The silence that followed was embarrassing. He knew One-Eye was watching him. But not liking to glance up, he was unable to judge of his companion's attitude. So he began again, changing the subject. "Cis is awful pretty," he confided. "Once she was a May Queen in Central Park for her class at school, only it wasn't in May, and she had all the ice cream she could eat. Mrs. Kukor made her a white dress for that time, and I made some art'ficial vi'lets for 'round her hair. Oh, she looked fine! And she saw the Prince of Wales when he was in N'York and ever since she's liked just him."

One-Eye took the cigar from his mouth. "It'd be a grand match for her," he conceded. His tone implied that the alliance with Royalty was by no means a remote possibility.

"A-a-a-aw!" scoffed Johnnie, flashing up at One-Eye a wise smile. "All the girls at Cis's fac'try seen him, too, and they all like him just the same as she does. But the Prince, he's got t' marry a Princess."

One-Eye agreed. "Pretty tough," he observed sympathetically, and went back to his cigar.

"So Cis'll have t' marry a movin'-picture actor," concluded Johnnie; "—or a cowboy."

At that the cigar fairly popped from One-Eye's countenance. "A cowboy!" he cried, the green eye dancing. "W'y, that'd be better'n a Prince!"

"It would?" Johnnie considered the idea.

"Certainly would—t' my way of thinkin'." In their brief acquaintance One-Eye had never before shown such interest, such animation.

"How d' you mean?"

"I mean," answered One-Eye, stoutly, "that cowboys is noble fellers!"

Before Johnnie could argue the matter further, or ask any one of the thousand questions that he would have liked to get explained regarding cowboys, the driver interrupted to demand how much farther southward he was expected to go; and as Chambers Street was even then just ahead, the eastern turn was made at once, which set Johnnie off along a new line of thought—his coming ordeal.

And this ordeal was not the meeting with Big Tom, which he dreaded enough, but which he believed would not have to be endured for at least some hours; it was the having to face, in company with this rich and important acquaintance, that gang of boys who so delighted to taunt him.

Anxiously his gray eyes searched ahead of the taxicab, which was now picking its way too swiftly through streets crowded with children. This ability to invest the present with all the reality of the future, how wonderful it could be!—but how terrible! For he was suffering greatly in advance, and writhing on the leather-covered seat, and all but pulling out his yellow hair.

"Arm ache y'?" One-Eye wanted to know.

"Guess so," faltered Johnnie. Then his face turned a sickly pale, and he shouldered a bit closer to his escort. A feeling of suffocation meant that his breath had stopped. And upon his untanned forehead oozed the perspiration of dismay. Also, his cheeks mottled. For just before them were two of those boys whom he feared!—as if they had sprung from a seam in the sidewalk! They were staring at the taxicab. They were looking at Johnnie (who stole a nervous look back). Now they were following on!

Johnnie's jaw set; his teeth clenched. He steeled himself to bear public insult.

Too many children had now brought the taxicab down to a crawling gait. Slowly it rolled on through shouting, Sunday-garbed youngsters. And fast grew the crowd which kept pace with it. But it was a silent crowd, as Johnnie's ears told him, for his chin was on his breast and his eyes were fixed upon the meter—in agony, as if he, and not One-Eye, would have to pay a charge which had already mounted high in three figures. Why was that crowd silent? And what were those boys preparing to do—two were now several—who held all things in scorn? who made even the life of the patrolman on the beat a thing to be dreaded?

The uncertainty was crushing.

"Home in a jiffy," soothed One-Eye, who felt sure the ride had been too much of a strain.

"Stop here," whispered Johnnie, catching sight, after a turn or two, of one of those entrances which gave to the area.

The taxicab stopped. In a hush that actually hurt, One-Eye rose and descended, flipping a five-dollar bill to the driver. "But don't you go," he directed. "I'll want y' t' tote me back uptown."

Johnnie rose then—feebly. Once more he held that bandaged arm to the front. His faltering eyes said that the injury was a plea—a plea for courteous treatment before this distinguished stranger. Oh, he knew he was a girlish-headed ragbag, but if they would only spare him this once!

One-Eye took his hand. "Step careful, sonny," he advised, almost tenderly. Then to those pressing round, "Back up, won't y'? Give this boy room? Don't y' see he's hurt?"

This was what so emboldened Johnnie that he decided, even as a bare foot sought the running-board of the machine, to take one good look around. He paused, therefore, lifted his head, and let his glance deliberately sweep the crowd.

What he saw fairly took his breath; brought a flush to his sober little face, and strengthened him, body and soul—but especially spine. For before him was a staring, admiring, respectful, yes, and fascinated, even awe-struck, assemblage. There were grown people in it. There were more above, to both sides, leaning out of windows. And every mouth was wide!

Was it One-Eye in his startling garb? or the professional touch to his own appearance, in the shape of that dramatic, handkerchief-slung arm? or was it both?

No matter. Instantly reacting to this solemn reception, Johnnie managed a pale smile. "Much obliged!"—this he said gaily as his feet touched the concrete. He was experiencing such pride as had been his before only in his "thinks."

This was a moment never to be forgotten!

"Now maybe I better lead—ha?" What satisfaction there was in addressing One-Eye thus familiarly in the teeth of the enemy!

"Break trail!" said One-Eye. Then, "Gangway!" he sang out to the crowd. Next, with a swift circular fling of an arm, he scattered a handful of small coins to right and left upon the street.

The crowd swayed, split, and scattered like the money. A path cleared. One-Eye at his side, Johnnie stepped forward.

Now he would have liked to hang back, to loiter a bit, delaying their disappearance, and enjoying the situation. But One-Eye, ignoring every one, as if crowds bored him, was headed for the hall like a fox to its hole, taking long, impressive, shaggy-legged strides.

Behind, the boys Johnnie had feared scrambled without shame for One-Eye's small silver. While he, the "Old clothes," the "Girl's hair," the mocked and despised, was walking, as man with man, beside the wonderful One-Eye before whom those same boys had not dared to utter a single slur!

His satisfaction was complete!

"Home again!" he cried, feeling ready to do a hop-skip except that it would take away from the effect they had made.

Oh, he could stand a whipping in the privacy of the flat if a whipping was waiting for him at the top of those three flights—now that this public part of the return had gone so magnificently!



CHAPTER XI

THE DISCOVERY

AND yet, after all, there was no sense in taking a strapping if it could just as well be avoided.

In the area he halted One-Eye, and they talked the matter over. The latter had no trouble at all in seeing Johnnie's attitude. "Was a boy myself oncet," he declared. "Used t' git the end of a rope ev'ry little while—yeppie, the knot-end, and that's how——"

But here Johnnie interrupted the story which seemed to be under way in order to urge some plan of action. However, it did not take long to fix upon one, this while One-Eye was finishing his cigar, the last inch of which, he asserted, was the best part, since in the process of smoking he had drawn into it all "the good" of the whole outward-extending portion. And while One-Eye smoked, Johnnie, who felt much better, went over their plan in detail, talking gaily between giggles.

"But, say! You be solemn!" warned One-Eye.

"We don't want t' make 'em all feel too bad, though," argued Johnnie.

"Sonny," counseled the other, "we'll savvy how we oughta behave after we see how the hull proposition strikes the bunch."

Johnnie agreed. But he already knew just how their entrance (which was nothing short of inspired) would "strike" the flat. He foresaw it all: first, glad cries of "Johnnie!" from Cis and Grandpa, and a frightened exclamation from Big Tom, whose anger would instantly melt; next, tears would flow as those two who were dearest hastened to the prodigal, and there would be anxious questions, and words of sweet consolation. On the strength of the return perhaps Barber would even buy pop!

After that, what an affecting picture!—the patient on his bed of pain—the maiden with cooling cloth and wash basin—the loving and much-troubled old man who did not dare wheel about for fear of jarring the hurt arm—a certain square-built lady, rocking this way and that (on her toes), her face all motherly solicitude—the stranger, with the gravest possible bedside manner—and, lastly, hovering somewhere in the offing, the outstanding figure of the whole composition, the humbled bully.

When Johnnie asked for his bed (which was part of the plan, for those books must be concealed under the quilt till dark), how they would all jump to fetch it; and when he asked for tea what an eager bustling, Barber rattling the stove lids, and—for once!—getting his huge fingers smudged, and Cis filling the kettle at the Falls of Niagara. The tea brewed, and Johnnie propped to drink it, with Mrs. Kukor to hold the cup to his lips, he would smile across at One-Eye as he sipped—but smile only faintly, as befits the very ill.

And then! One-Eye, urged by all the others, would tell his tale of the boy, weary and hungry, whom he chanced upon wandering some street (he had promised not to say which one!), and escorted to supper, and afterward to the great horse palace. He would relate how he had insisted that Johnnie sleep in the palace that night, though—no doubt of it!—the latter had fretted to return home. "But I jes' couldn't leave him do it, no matter how much he begged," One-Eye was to declare; "he was that tuckered. And this mornin', here he was, workin'! Say, but he's a A-1 worker!"

What a chorus would interrupt him!—a chorus of agreement. Then would follow a description of that terrible flea-bitten mare, and of Johnnie's bravery; of the fierce kick, and the boy's quiet bearing of his agony, all closing with a word about the wound and its seriousness.

Next, it would be Big Tom's turn. And he would tell of a home bereft, of an old man's pitiful grief (oh, dear, loving Grandpa!), and of two broken-hearted ladies. Doubtless the longshoreman would touch also upon the fact that he was considerably out of pocket, but Johnnie would not mind that.

Cis, likely, would have nothing to say, but would look all she felt; and Grandpa would sandwich a few words in between other people's. But Mrs. Kukor! Hers would be the story worth hearing! Oh, that volume of broken-English! Johnnie counted upon it.

With such pleasing thoughts he occupied himself as he and One-Eye stole up the stairs. But when they were just outside the door of the flat, the chimes of Trinity began to ring, sounding above the grinding of the nearest Elevated Railroad. Those clanging summons reminded Johnnie that Big Tom would surely be at home, and he suffered a sudden qualm of apprehension. He looked longingly over a shoulder, wishing he might turn back. He had a "gone" feeling under his belt, and a tickling in his throat (it was very dry), as if his heart had traveled up there and got wedged, and was now going like Uncle Albert's watch.