are and cheerless room; a pile of rags for a bed in the corner,
another in the dark alcove, miscalled bedroom; under the window a broken
cradle and an iron-bound chest, upon which sat a sad-eyed woman with
hard lines in her face, peeling potatoes in a pan; in the middle of the
room a rusty stove, with a pile of wood, chopped on the floor alongside.
A man on his knees in front fanning the fire with an old slouch hat.
With each breath of draught he stirred, the crazy old pipe belched forth
torrents of smoke at every point. As Nibsy entered, the man desisted
from his efforts and sat up glaring at him. A villainous ruffian's face,
scowling with anger.

"Late ag'in!" he growled; "an' yer papers not sold. What did I tell yer,
brat, if ye dared----"

"Tom! Tom!" broke in the wife, in a desperate attempt to soothe the
ruffian's temper.

"The boy can't help it, an' it's Christmas-eve. For the love o'----"

"To thunder with yer rot and with yer brat!" shouted the man, mad with
the fury of passion. "Let me at him!" and, reaching over, he seized a
heavy knot of wood and flung it at the head of the boy.

Nibsy had remained just inside the door, edging slowly toward his
mother, but with a watchful eye on the man at the stove. At the first
movement of his hand toward the woodpile he sprang for the stairway with
the agility of a cat, and just dodged the missile. It struck the door,
as he slammed it behind him, with force enough to smash the panel.

Down the three flights in as many jumps Nibsy went, and through the
alley, over barrels and barriers, never stopping once till he reached
the street, and curses and shouts were left behind.

In his flight he had lost his unsold papers, and he felt ruefully in his
pocket as he went down the street, pulling his rags about him as much
from shame as to keep out the cold.

Four pennies were all he had left after his Christmas treat to the two
little lads from the barracks; not enough for supper or for a bed; and
it was getting colder all the time.

On the sidewalk in front of the notion store a belated Christmas party
was in progress. The children from the tenements in the alley and across
the way were having a game of blindman's-buff, groping blindly about in
the crowd to catch each other. They hailed Nibsy with shouts of
laughter, calling to him to join in.

"We're having Christmas!" they yelled.

Nibsy did not hear them. He was thinking, thinking, the while turning
over his four p