Tattered Tom. Alger Horatio Jr.

said Tom, “but I wouldn’t mind so much if I hadn’t had my money stole. I’m bust!”

      “How’s that? Did the bank break or have you been speculating?”

      “Oh, you’re gasin’! I aint got nothing to do with banks. Somebody stole two shillin’s I had, so I’ve had no breakfast.”

      “Come, that’s bad. I guess I must give you a job, after all. You can’t carry my bag, but you can carry this.”

      He had under his arm something wrapped in a paper, making a small bundle. He handed it to Tom, and she trudged along with it after him.

      “You couldn’t guess what that is, I suppose?” said her companion, sociably.

      “No,” said Tom; “it feels soft.”

      “It’s a large wax doll, for my little niece,” said her patron. “You haven’t got any dolls, I suppose?”

      “I had one once,” said Tom. “It was made of rags. But granny threw it into the fire.”

      “I suppose you were sorry.”

      “I was then; but I’m too old for dolls now.”

      “How old are you?”

      “I aint sure. Somewheres about twelve.”

      “You live with your granny, then?”

      “No, I don’t,—not now.”

      “Why not?”

      “She wanted to lick me, so I run away.”

      “Then where do you live now?”

      “Nowhere.”