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“Here, Mike, ye ain’t on ter yer job. Youse can’t sell nuttin’ dat
way,” scoffed a friendly voice. “Here, now, watch!” And before the
Millionaire could collect his wits he saw the four papers he had bought
that morning to help beguile a dreary day, snatched into the grimy
hands of a small boy and promptly made off with.

The man’s angry word of remonstrance died on his lips. The boy was
darting in and out of the crowd, shouting “Poiper, here’s yer poiper!”
at the top of his voice. Nor did he return until the last pair of feet
had crossed the gangplank. Then in triumph he hurried back to the
waiting man in the wheel chair and dropped into his lap a tiny heap of
coppers.

“Sold out, pardner! Dat’s what we be,” he crowed delighted. “Sold
out!”

“But–I–you–” gasped the man.

“Aw, furgit it–‘t wa’n’t nuttin’,” disdained the boy airily. “Ye see,
youse got ter holler.”

“To–to ‘holler’!”

“Sure, Mike, or ye can’t sell nuttin’. I been a-watchin’ ye, an’ I see
right off ye wa’n’t on ter yer job. Why, pardner, ye can’t sell
poipers like ye was shellin’ out free sody-checks at a picnic. Youse
got ter yell at ’em, an’ git dere ‘tention. ‘Course, ye can’t run like
I can”–his voice softened awkwardly as his eyes fell to the crutches
at the man’s side–“but ye can holler, an’ not jest set dere a-shakin’
’em easy at ’em, like ye did a minute ago. Dat ain’t no way ter sell
poipers!”

With a half-smothered exclamation the Millionaire fell back in his
chair. He knew now that he was not a millionaire, but a “Mike” to the
boy. He was not William Seymore Haynes, but a cripple selling papers
for a living. He would not have believed that a turned-up collar, a
turned down soft hat, and a few jerks of a newspaper could have made
such a metamorphosis.

“Youse’ll catch on in no time now, pardner,” resumed the boy
soothingly, “an’ I’m mighty glad I was here ter set ye goin’. Sure, I
sells poipers meself, I does, an’ I knows how ‘t is. Don’t look so
flabbergasted. ‘T ain’t nuttin’. Shucks! hain’t fellers what’s
pardners oughter do a turn fur ‘t odder?”

The Millionaire bit his lip. He had intended to offer money to this
boy, but with his gaze on that glowing countenance, he knew that he
could not. He had come suddenly face to face with something for which
his gold could not pay.

“Th-thank you,” he stammered embarrassedly. “You–you were very kind.”
He paused, and gazed nervously back toward the street. “I–I was
expecting some one. We were going to take that boat.”

“No! Was ye? An’ he did n’t show up? Say, now, dat’s tough–an’
T’anksgivin’, too!”

“As if I cared for Thanksgiving!” The words came tense with bitterness.

“Aw, come now, furgit it!” There was a look of real concern on the
boy’s face. “Dat ain’t no way ter talk. It’s T’anksgivin’!”

“Yes, I know–for some.” The man’s lips snapped shut grimly.

“Aw, come off! Never mind if yer pal did n’t show up. Dere ‘s odders;
dere ‘s me now. Tell ye what, youse come home wid me. Dere won’t be
no boat now fur a heap o’ time, an’ I ‘m goin’ ter T’anksgive. Come
on! ‘T ain’t fur. I’ll wheel ye.”

The man stared frankly.

“Er–thank you,” he murmured, with an odd little laugh; “but–“

“Shucks! ‘Course ye can. What be ye goin’ ter do?–set here? What’s
the use o’ mopin’ like dis when youse got a invite out ter
T’anksgivin’? An’ ye better catch it while it’s goin’, too. Ye see,
some days I could n’t ask ye–not grub enough; but I can ter-day. We
got a s’prise comin’.”