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“Indeed!” The tone was abstracted, almost irritable; but the boy
ignored this.

“Sure! It’s a dinner–a T’anksgivin’ dinner bringed in to us. Now
ain’t ye comin’?”

“A dinner, did you say?–brought to you?”

“Yeaup!”

“Who brings it?”

“A lady what comes ter see me an’ Kitty sometimes; an’ she’s a
peacherino, she is! She said she ‘d bring it.”

“Do you know–her name?” The words came a little breathlessly.

“You bet! Why, she’s our friend, I tell ye! Her name is Miss Daisy
Carrolton; dat ‘s what ‘t is.”

The man relaxed in his chair. It was the dearest girl in the world.

“Say, ain’t ye comin’?” urged the boy, anxiously.

“Coming? Of course I’m coming,” cried the man, with sudden energy.
“Just catch hold of that chair back there, lad, and you’ll see.”

“Say, now, dat’s sumpin’ like,” crowed the boy, as he briskly started
the chair. “‘T ain’t fur, ye know.”

Neither the boy nor the Millionaire talked much on the way. The boy
was busy with his task; the man, with his thoughts. Just why he was
doing this thing was not clear even to the man himself. He suspected
it was because of the girl. He could fancy her face when she should
find that it was to him she was bringing her turkey dinner! He roused
himself with a start. The boy was speaking.

“My! but I ‘m glad I stopped an’ watched ye tryin’ ter sell poipers.
T’ink o’ youse a-settin’ dere all dis time a-waitin’ fur dat boat–an’
T’anksgivin’, too! An’ don’t ye worry none. Ma an’ Kitty ‘ll be right
glad to see ye. ‘T ain’t often we can have comp’ny. It’s most allers
us what’s takin’ t’ings give ter us–not givin’ ourselves.”

“Oh,” replied the man uncertainly. “Is–is that so?”

With a distinct shock it had come to the millionaire that he was not
merely the disgruntled lover planning a little prank to tease the
dearest girl in the world. He was the honored guest of a family who
were rejoicing that it was in their power to give a lonely cripple a
Thanksgiving dinner. His face grew red at the thought.

“Ugh-uh. An’, oh, I say, what is yer name, pardner?” went on the
boy. “‘Course I called ye ‘Mike,’ but–“

“Then suppose you still call me ‘Mike,'” retorted the man, nervously
wondering if he could play the part. He caught a glimpse of the
beaming face of his benefactor–and decided that he must play it.

“A’ right, den; an’ here we be,” announced the boy in triumph, stopping
before a flight of steps that led to a basement door.

With the aid of his crutches the man descended the steps. Behind him
came the boy with the chair. At the foot the boy flung wide the door
and escorted his guest through a dark, evil-smelling hallway, into a
kitchen beyond.

“Ma! Kitty! look a-here!” he shouted, leaving the chair, and springing
into the room. “I ‘ve bringed home comp’ny ter dinner. Dis is Mike.
He was sellin’ poipers down ter de dock, an’ he lost his boat. I told
him ter come on here an’ eat wid us. I knowed what was comin’, ye see!”

“Why, yes, indeed, of course,” fluttered a wan-faced little woman,
plainly trying not to look surprised. “Sit down, Mr. Mike,” she
finished, drawing up a chair to the old stove.

“Thank you, but I–I–” The man looked about for a means of escape.
In the doorway stood the boy with the wheel chair.

“Here, Mr. Mike, mebbe youse wanted dis. Say, Kitty, ain’t dis grand?”
he ended admiringly, wheeling the chair to the middle of the room.

From the corner came the tap of crutches, and the man saw then what he
had not seen before; a slip of a girl, perhaps twelve years old, with a
helpless little foot hanging limp below the skirt-hem.