Tommy Taft was not particularly fond of work; in other words, he was not a great worker.  On this occasion, however, the promise of an extra shilling being uppermost in his mind, he plied his energies with more than wonted skill.  He was disposed to be meditative as well, and so deeply that he chanced not to perceive an aged personage who, for perhaps five and twenty minutes, had been cautiously scrutinizing him from across the wall.

It was a most extraordinary fit of sneezing—­nothing more nor less—­that first attracted the attention of Tommy Taft, and prompted him to look up.  And what did he see?  Only a weather-beaten face, shaded by a ragged straw hat out of which peeped locks of grizzled gray hair.  The owner leaned somewhat heavily against the wall.

Tommy Taft was not amazed; but if he had not already become accustomed to affronts and ill-shapen visages, he might have been awed into silence.  He merely paused, with his right foot on the shoulder of the spade share, and peered at the stranger.  To the best of his knowledge, he had never seen him before.  On a former time, however, he had chanced to see his own face in a mirror and, odd as it may seem, he now remarked to himself a striking resemblance between the two faces,—­his own and that of the new comer.  But his thoughts were quickly turned.

“I say, young man!”

“What say?” replied Tommy Taft.

“You don’t happen to know a young man by the name o’ Tom Taft, do you?”

“I reckon I do.”  The youth plunged the spade share into the earth, and folded his arms.

“Have a shake, then,” continued the stranger.

“But that ain’t a tellin’ me who you be,” said Tommy Taft, approaching and holding out his hand.

“I’m Jim Taft; and if so be your father was a shoemaker in this town and got locked up—­I say, I’m he!”

There was pathos in the utterance of these words, and, somehow or other, Tommy Taft’s heart fluttered just a little and before he was aware of it a tear was trickling down his cheek.

“Are you happy, young man,” queried the elder.  He drew himself up on the wall.

“Well, I s’pose I am, though I ain’t got nuthin’.  But folks as haint got nuthin’ and enjoy it is a plagued sight richer than sich as has got everything and don’t enjoy it.  Yes—­I s’pose I’m happy.”

“And where’s the old woman?”

“Dead, I s’pose.”

“Dead!”

“Or in the work-house where she might’nt have been, if you’d a stayed round.”

Jim Taft, for it was he, began to think, and the longer he thought, the more troubled he looked.

“You won’t say as you saw me loafin’ around here, will you?” he asked at length; “that is, if you won’t give me a lift, me—­your father?”

“How a lift?” inquired his interlocutor.

“A few shillings perhaps; or, perhaps you ain’t got a pair o’ boots as has in ’em more leather ’n holes, or a pair of breeches as is good for suthin’.”