Stepping out of the French window upon a balcony now, he looked down the street.  The newsboy was almost below.  He whistled, and the lad looked up.  In response to a beckoning finger the gutter-snipe took the doorway and the staircase at a bound.  Like all his kind, he was a good judge of character, and one glance had assured him that he was speeding upon a visit of profit.  Half a postman’s knock—­a sharp, insistent stroke—­and he entered, his thin weasel-like face thrust forward, his eyes glittering.  The fire in such eyes is always cold, for hunger is poor fuel to the native flame of life.

“Extra speshul, m’lord—­all about Kruger’s guns.”

He held out the paper to the figure that darkened the window, and he pronounced the g in Kruger soft, as in Scrooge.

The hand that took the paper deftly slipped a shilling into the cold, skinny palm.  At its first touch the face of the paper-vender fell, for it was the same size as a halfpenny; but even before the swift fingers had had a chance to feel the coin, or the glance went down, the face regained its confidence, for the eyes looking at him were generous.  He had looked at so many faces in his brief day that he was an expert observer.

“Thank y’ kindly,” he said; then, as the fingers made assurance of the fortune which had come to him, “Ow, thank ye werry much, y’r gryce,” he added.

Something alert and determined in the face of the boy struck the giver of the coin as he opened the paper to glance at its contents, and he paused to scan him more closely.  He saw the hunger in the lad’s eyes as they swept over the breakfast-table, still heavy with uneaten breakfast—­bacon, nearly the whole of an omelette, and rolls, toast, marmalade and honey.

“Wait a second,” he said, as the boy turned toward the door.

“Yes, y’r gryce.”

“Had your breakfast?”

“I has me brekfist w’en I sells me pypers.”  The lad hugged the remaining papers closer under his arms, and kept his face turned resolutely away from the inviting table.  His host correctly interpreted the action.

“Poor little devil—­grit, pure grit!” he said under his breath.  “How many papers have you got left?” he asked.

The lad counted like lightning.  “Ten,” he answered.  “I’ll soon get ’em off now.  Luck’s wiv me dis mornin’.”  The ghost of a smile lighted his face.

“I’ll take them all,” the other said, handing over a second shilling.

The lad fumbled for change and the fumbling was due to honest agitation.  He was not used to this kind of treatment.

“No, that’s all right,” the other interposed.

“But they’re only a h’ypenny,” urged the lad, for his natural cupidity had given way to a certain fine faculty not too common in any grade of human society.

“Well, I’m buying them at a penny this morning.  I’ve got some friends who’ll be glad to give a penny to know all about Kruger’s guns.”  He too softened the g in Kruger in consideration of his visitor’s idiosyncrasies.