“I beg your pardon.”  Van Landing, whose well-regulated life permitted of few impulses, turned to the boy.  “I ordered these things”—­he pointed to the steaming food—­“and I don’t want them.  I want something else.  Would you mind having them?  It’s a pity to throw them away.”

The boy hesitated, uncertain what was meant, then he laughed.  “It sure is,” he said.  “If you don’t want them I’ll help you out.  I’m hollow as a hound what’s been on a hunt.  Good thing Christmas don’t come but once a year.  You can cut out lunch better’n anything else for a save-up, though.  That girl over there”—­he pointed his finger behind him—­“ain’t had nothing but a glass of milk for a month.  She’s got some kiddie brothers and sisters, and they’re bound to have Christmas, she says.  Rough day, ain’t it?”

Van Landing gave another order.  Had it not been for the gnawing restlessness, the growing fear, which filled him, the scene would have interested.  A few days ago he would have seen only the sordid side of it, the crudeness and coarseness; but the search he was on had humanized what hitherto had only seemed a disagreeable and objectionable side of life, and the people before him were of an odd kinship.  In their faces was hunger.  There were so many kinds of hunger in the world.  He got up, and with a nod to the boy paid his bill and went out.

Through the afternoon hours he walked steadily.  Dogged determination made him keep on, just as sensitive shrinking prevented his making inquiries of others.  It was silly to ask what couldn’t be answered.  He must have been mad the night before not to have noticed where he was going, not to have asked Carmencita her name.

By four o’clock the street-lights had been turned on, making of the dark, dingy tenements a long lane with high, unbroken walls, and on a corner he stood for a moment wondering which was the best way to go.  To his left were shops; he went toward them, and each face of the children coming in or going out was scanned intently.  Seeing a group pressed close to a window in which was displayed an assortment of dolls of all sorts and sizes, with peculiar clothing of peculiar colors, he went toward them, stood for a moment by their side.  One of the children was the size of Carmencita.

“That’s mine—­that one in the pink-silk dress”—­a dirty little finger was pointed to a huge and highly decorated doll in the center of the window—­“that and the blue beads, and that box of paints with the picture on it, and—­”

“You’re a pig, all right.  Want the earth, don’t you?  Well, you can’t have it.”  And valiantly a child with a shawl on her head pushed closer to the window, now clouded by the steam from many little mouths.  “I want that one—­the one in long clothes with a cap on.  What you want, Lizzie Lue?  Look out there and keep your elbows where they belong”—­this to the jostling, pushing crowd behind.  “Come on, kid; kick if you have to; only way you can manage some folks.  Which one you want, Lizzie Lue?” And a tiny scrap of a child was held up in arms but little bigger than her own.