“What could you do?” said the little old man.

“That’s it; I was only eleven years old; and what could I do?  What I should have liked would have been some nice place where I could do light work, and stand a chance of learning a good business.  But beggars mustn’t be choosers.  I couldn’t find such a place; and I wasn’t going to be loafing about the streets, so I went to selling newspapers.  I’ve sold newspapers ever since, and I shall be twelve years old next month.”

“You like it?” said the old man.

“I like to get my own living,” replied Bert, proudly.  “But what I want is, to learn some trade, or regular business, and settle down and make a home for my mother.  But there’s no use talking about that.

“Well I’ve told you about myself,” added Bert; “now suppose 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 you about many of my plans and high 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 nearly seventy years old.”

“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 nights 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, and handed it across the table to his new friend.

[Illustration:  HERBERT HAMPTON Dealer in Newspapers]

The old man read the card, with his sharp gray eyes, which glowed up funnily at Bert, seeming to say, “Isn’t this rather aristocratic for a twelve-year-old news-boy?”

Bert blushed and explained:—­

“Got up for me by a printer’s boy I know.  I had done some favors for him, and so he made me a few cards.  Handy to have sometimes, you know.”

“Well, Herbert,” said the old man, “I’m glad to make your acquaintance, 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.”  And he put his hand in his pocket.

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 looked around again, the little old man was gone.

“Now mind; I’ll go and see him the first chance I have,” said Bert, as he looked at the penciled strip of newspaper margin again before putting it into his pocket.