“Sam’s got nothing to do with it,” returned Pinky.

“He hasn’t?”

“No.”

“Who has, then?”

“His backer.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, I found it all out—­I know how it’s done.  Sam’s got a backer—­a man that puts up the money.  Sam only sells for his backer.  When there’s a hit, the backer pays.”

“Who’s Sam’s backer, as you call him?”

“Couldn’t get him to tell; tried him hard, but he was close as an oyster.  Drives in the Park and wears a two thousand dollar diamond pin; he let that out.  So he’s good for the hits.  Sam always puts the money down, fair and square.”

“Very well; you get the policy, and do it right off, Pinky, or the money’ll slip through your fingers.”

“All right,” answered Pinky as she folded the slip of paper containing the lucky rows.  “Never you fear.  I’ll be at Sam McFaddon’s in ten minutes after I leave here.”

“And be sure,” said Mrs. Bray, “to look after the baby to-night, and see that it doesn’t perish with cold; the air’s getting sharp.”

“It ought to have something warmer than cotton rags on its poor little body,” returned Pinky.  “Can’t you get it some flannel?  It will die if you don’t.”

“I sent it a warm petticoat last week,” said Mrs. Bray.

“You did?”

“Yes; I bought one at a Jew shop, and had it sent to the woman.”

“Was it a nice warm one?”

“Yes.”

Pinky drew a sigh.  “I saw the poor baby last night; hadn’t anything on but dirty cotton rags.  It was lying asleep in a cold cellar on a little heap of straw.  The woman had given it something, I guess, by the way it slept.  The petticoat had gone, most likely, to Sam McFaddon’s.  She spends everything she can lay her hands on in policies and whisky.”

“She’s paid a dollar a week for taking care of the baby at night and on Sundays,” said Mrs. Bray.

“It wouldn’t help the baby any if she got ten dollars,” returned Pinky.  “It ought to be taken away from her.”

“But who’s to do that?  Sally Long sold it to the two beggar women, and they board it out.  I have no right to interfere; they own the baby, and can do as they please with it.”

“It could be got to the almshouse,” said Pinky; “it would be a thousand times better off.”

“It mustn’t go to the almshouse,” replied Mrs. Bray; “I might lose track of it, and that would never do.”

“You’ll lose track of it for good and all before long, if you don’t get it out of them women’s bands.  No baby can hold out being begged with long; it’s too hard on the little things.  For you know how it is, Fan; they must keep ’em half starved and as sick as they will bear without dying right off, so as to make ’em look pitiful.  You can’t do much at begging with a fat, hearty-looking baby.”

“What’s to be done about it?” asked Mrs. Bray.  “I don’t want that baby to die.”