pay for it. Thanksgiving don't come but once a
year. You won't? A cup of tea, then, to go with your pie?"

"I think I _will_ have a cup of tea; you are _so_ kind," said the old
man.

"All right! Here, waiter! Two pieces of your fattest and biggest
squash pie; and a cup of tea, strong, for this gentleman."

"I've told you about myself," added Bert; "suppose, now, _you_ tell
_me_ something."

"About myself?"

"Yes. I think that would go pretty well with the pie."

But the man shook his head. "I could go back and tell about my plans
and hopes when I was a lad of your age, but it would be too much like
your own story over again. Life isn't what we think it will be when we
are young. You'll find that out soon enough. I am all alone in the
world now, and I am sixty-seven years old."

"Have some cheese with your pie, won't you? It must be so lonely at
your age! What do you do for a living?"

"I have a little place in Devonshire Street. My name is Crooker.
You'll find me up two flights of stairs, back room, at the right. Come
and see me, and I'll tell you all about my business, and perhaps help
you to such a place as you want, for I know several business men. Now
don't fail."

And Mr. Crooker wrote his address with a little stub of a pencil on a
corner of the newspaper which had led to their acquaintance, tore it
off carefully, and gave it to Bert.

Thereupon the latter took a card from his pocket, not a very clean
one, I must say (I am speaking of the card, though the remark will
apply equally well to the pocket) and handed it across the table to
his new friend.

"_Herbert Hampton, Dealer in Newspapers_," the old man read, with his
sharp gray eyes, which glanced up funnily at Bert, seeming to say,
"Isn't this rather aristocratic for a twelve-year-old newsboy?"

Bert blushed, and explained: "Got up for me by a printer's boy I know.
I'd done some favours for him, so he made me a few cards. Handy to
have sometimes, you know."

"Well, Herbert," said the little old man, "I'm glad to have made your
acquaintance. The pie was excellent--not any more, thank you--and I
hope you'll come and see me. You'll find me in very humble quarters;
but you are not aristocratic, you say. Now won't you let me pay for my
dinner? I believe I have money enough. Let me see."

Bert would not hear of such a thing, but walked up to the desk and
settled the bill with the air of a person who did not regard a
trifling expense.

When he loo