“You ought to come down in your price, this time of day.  You can’t expect to sell a morning paper at 12 o’clock for full price.”

“Well, give me a cent, then,” said Bert.  “That’s less than cost; but never mind.  I’m bound to sell out, anyhow.”

[Illustration:  “Buy a paper, sir?”]

“You look cold,” said the old man.

“Cold,” replied Bert, “I’m nearly froze.  And I want my dinner.  And I’m going to have a big dinner, too, seeing it’s Thanksgiving day.”

“Ah! lucky for you, my boy!” said the old man.  “You’ve a home to go to, and friends, too I hope.”

“No, sir; no home, and no friend—­only my mother.”  Bert hesitated and grew serious, then suddenly changed his tone—­“and Hop Houghton.  I told him to meet me here, and we’d have a first-rate Thanksgiving dinner together, for it’s no fun to be eating alone Thanksgiving day!  It sets a fellow thinking,—­if he ever had a home, and then hasn’t got a home any more.”

“It’s more lonesome not to eat at all,” said the old man, his gray eyes twinkling.  “And what can a boy like you have to think of?  Here, I guess I can find one cent for you—­though there’s nothing in the paper, I know.”

The old man spoke with some feeling, his fingers trembled, and somehow he dropped two cents instead of one into Bert’s hand.

“Here! you’ve made a mistake!” cried Bert.  “A bargain’s a bargain.  You’ve given me a cent too much!”

“No, I didn’t,—­I never give anybody a cent too much!”

“But—­see here!” And Bert showed the two cents, offering to return one.

“No matter,” said the old man.  “It will be so much less for my dinner—­that’s all.”

Bert had instinctively pocketed the pennies, but his sympathies were excited.

“Poor old man!” he thought; “he’s seen better days, I guess.  Perhaps he’s no home.  A boy like me can stand it, but I guess it must be hard for him.  He meant to give me the odd cent, all the while; and I don’t believe he has had a decent dinner for many a day.”

All this, which I have been obliged to write out slowly in words, went through Bert’s mind like a flash.  He was a generous little fellow, and any kindness shown him, no matter how trifling, made his heart overflow.

“Look here,” he cried; “where are you going to get your dinner, to-day?”

“I can get a bite here as well as anywhere—­it don’t matter much to me,” replied the old man.

“Come; eat dinner with me,” said Bert, “I’d like to have you.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t afford to dine as you are going to,” said the man, with a smile, his eyes twinkling again.

“I’ll pay for your dinner!” Bert exclaimed.  “Come! we don’t have a Thanksgiving but once a year, and a fellow wants a good time then.”

“But you are waiting for another boy.”

“Oh!  Hop Houghton.  He won’t come now, it’s too late.  He’s gone to a place down in North street, I guess,—­a place I don’t like, there’s so much tobacco smoked and so much beer drank there.”  Bert cast a final glance up the street, but could see nothing of his friend.