Hungry, tired and cold, for the summer was gone and mid-autumn had brought its chilly nights, Andy found himself, as darkness fell, in a vile, narrow court, among some children as forlorn and dirty as himself.  It was Grubb’s court—­his old home—­though in his memory there was of course no record of the place.

Too tired and hungry for play, Andy was sitting on the step of a wretched hovel, when the door opened and a woman called sharply the names of her two children.  They answered a little way off.  “Come in this minute, and get your suppers,” she called again, and turning back without noticing Andy, left the door open for her children.  The poor cast-adrift looked in and saw light and food and comfort—­a home that made him heartsick with longing, mean and disordered and miserable as it would have appeared to your eyes and mine, reader.  The two children, coming at their mother’s call, found him standing just on the threshold gazing in wistfully; and as they entered, he, drawn by their attraction, went in also.  Then, turning toward her children, the mother saw Andy.

“Out of this!” she cried, in quick anger, raising her hand and moving hastily toward the child.  “Off home with you!”

Andy might well be frightened at the terrible face and threatening words of this woman, and he was frightened.  But he did not turn and fly, as she meant that he should.  He had learned, young as he was, that if he were driven off by every rebuff, he would starve.  It was only through importunity and perseverance that he lived.  So he held his ground, his large, clear eyes fixed steadily on the woman’s face as she advanced upon him.  Something in those eyes and in the firmly-set mouth checked the woman’s purpose if she had meant violence, but she thrust him out into the damp street, nevertheless, though not roughly, and shut the door against him.

Andy did not cry; poor little baby that he was, he had long since learned that for him crying did no good.  It brought him nothing.  Just across the street a door stood open.  As a stray kitten creeps in through an open door, so crept he through this one, hoping for shelter and a place of rest.

“Who’re you?” growled the rough but not unkindly voice of a man, coming from the darkness.  At the same moment a light gleamed out from a match, and then the steadier flame of a candle lit up the small room, not more than eight or nine feet square, and containing little that could be called furniture.  The floor was bare.  In one corner were some old bits of carpet and a blanket.  A small table, a couple of chairs with the backs broken off and a few pans and dishes made up the inventory of household goods.

As the light made all things clear in this poor room, Andy saw the bloodshot eyes, and grizzly face of a man, not far past middle life.

“Who are you, little one?” he growled again as the light gave him a view of Andy’s face.  This growl had in it a tone of kindness and welcome to the ears of Andy who came forward, saying,