The snow kept on falling, and it began to grow dark in the little shop.  Crip had just lighted a candle, when the shop door opened, and a boy, not much bigger than Crip himself, came in and shut the door behind him.

Crip jumped up from the bench and said: 

“What——?”

“You don’t know me, Crip Allen,” said the boy.

“Who be you?” questioned Crip.

“Don’t wonder!” said the other, “for we’ve all come right out of the jaws of ice and death.  I’m Jo Jay.”

“Jo Jay,—­looking so!” said Crip.

“Never mind!  Only give me a pair of shoes—­old ones will do—­to get home in.  It’s three miles to go, and it’s five months since I’ve had shoes on my feet.  Oh, Crip! we’ve had a bad time on board, and no cargo to speak of to bring home.”

“You wont pay for the shoes?” asked Crip.

“No money,” said Jo, thrusting forth a tied-up foot, wrapped in sail-rags.  “But, Crip, do hurry!  I must get home to mother, if she’s alive.”

“She’s alive—­saw her to meeting,” said Crip, fumbling in a wooden box to get forth a pair of half-worn shoes he remembered about.

He produced them.  Jo Jay seized the shoes eagerly, and, taking off his wrappings, quickly thrust his feet, that had so long been shoeless, into them:  and, with a “Bless you, Crip!  I’ll make it all right some day.” hobbled off, making tracks in the snow, just before Crip’s father came up from the dock.

Mr. John Allen returned in a despondent mood.  There was not oil enough on board the “Sweet Home” to buy shoes for the men.

“Who’s been here, Crip?  Socks in and shoes out, I see.”

“Jo Jay, father.”

“Where’s the money, Crip?” and Mr. Allen turned his big, searching blue eyes on Crip, and held forth his hand.

“Why, father,” said Crip, “he hadn’t any, and he wanted to go home.  It’s three miles, you know, and snowing.”

“Crip Allen!  Do you know what you’ve done?  You’ve stolen a pair of shoes.”

“Oh, I haven’t, father,” cried Crip, “and ’t was only the old, half-worn shoes that you mended for George Hine, that he couldn’t wear.”

“Christopher!” thundered forth Mr. Allen, in a voice that made the lad shake in his boots, “go into the house and right upstairs to bed.  You have stolen a pair of shoes from your own father.  You knew they were not yours to give away.”

Poor Crip!  Now he couldn’t get a sight of the “Sweet Home” to-night, even through the darkness and the snow.

His upper lip began to tremble and give way, but he went into the big red house, up the front staircase to his own room, and, in the cold, crept under the blankets into a big feather bed, and thought of Jo plodding his way home.

About eight of the clock, when Crip was fast asleep, the door opened, somebody walked in, and a hand touched the boy, and left a bit of cake on his pillow; then the hand and the somebody went away, and Crip was left alone until morning.  He went down to breakfast when called.  His father’s face was more stern than it had been the night before.  Crip could scarcely swallow the needful food.  When breakfast was over, Mr. Allen said: