“I guess that’s about all the fixings you’ll need, Geoff!” said Spike, as they elbowed their way along the busy avenue.

“Well,” answered Mr. Ravenslee, as he filled his pipe, “it will certainly take me some time to wear ’em out—­especially those shirts!”

“They sure are dandies, Geoff!  Yes, those shirts are all to the lollipops, but say, you made a miscue gettin’ them black shoes,” and here Spike turned to stare down at his companion’s newly acquired footwear.  “Why not buy the yellow boys I rustled up for you.  They sure were some shoes!”

“They were indeed, Spike.”

“Gee, but it must feel good t’ be able t’ buy whatever you want!” sighed Spike dreamily.  “Some day I mean to have a wad big enough t’ choke a cow—­but I wish I had it right now!”

“What would you do with it?”

“Do with it!  Well, say, first off I’d—­I’d buy Hermy them roses—­th’ whole lot,” and he pointed where, among the pushcarts drawn up against the curb, was one where roses bloomed, filling the air with their sweetness.  “An’ next she should—­”

“Then go and buy ’em, Spike!” and speaking, Mr. Ravenslee thrust a bill into Spike’s hand.

“Gee—­a twenty-spot!  Can I, Geoff?” he cried, his blue eyes shining.  “Th’ whole lot—­on d’ level?”

“On the level.”

Spike started joyfully away, paused, turned, and came back with head a-droop.

“I guess it can’t be done, Geoff,” he sighed.

“Why not?”

“Well, y’ see, it ain’t as it was my own money, really.”

“But it is!”

“No, it ain’t!  I haven’t earned it, Geoff, an’ I ain’t a guy as sponges on his pals, not much I ain’t.  Take your money, Geoff.  When I buy Hermy anything it’s goin’ to be bought with money as I’ve earned.”

So Mr. Ravenslee thrust the bill back into his pocket and thereafter walked on, frowning and very silent, as one lost in perplexed thought.  Wherefore, after more than one furtive glance at him, Spike addressed him with a note of diffidence in his voice.

“You ain’t sore with me, are you, Geoff?”

“Sore with you?”

“I mean, because I—­I didn’t take your money?”

Here Mr. Ravenslee turned to glance down at Spike and clap a hand upon his shoulder.

“No,” he answered, “I’m not sore with you.  And I think—­yes, I think your sister is going to be proud of you one day.”

And now it was Spike’s turn to grow thoughtful, while his companion, noting the flushed brow and the firm set of the boyish lips, frowned no longer.

“Hello, there’s Tony!” exclaimed Spike as they turned into Forty-second Street, “over there—­behind the pushcart—­th’ guy with th’ peanuts!” And he pointed where, from amid a throng of vehicles, a gaily painted barrow emerged, a barrow whereon were peanuts unbaked, baked, and baking as the shrill small whistle above its stove proclaimed to all and sundry.  It was propelled by a slender, graceful, olive-skinned man, who, beholding Spike, flashed two rows of brilliant teeth and halted his barrow beside the curb.