smitten. Something of camaraderie in Stranleigh's tone and words inspired confidence in the slum-seared hearts of the little gamins.
"Can you read, my son?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's the name painted over that shop across the way?"
"Brassard, sir?"
"No, not that one—the shop this side."
"'John Bendale, Cutler.'"
"That's right. Well, he's a seller of knives. How much is this coin in my palm?"
"Ten shillings, sir."
"Right you are. Now, cut across to Bendale's—you mustn't go into the shop next door, remember—and tell the man you want the best knife he can give you for five shillings. Buy a screw-driver, too, and then bring back the change to me."
The boy fled. This was too good to be true.
"Aren't you going to give any of us a knife, sir?" protested another small boy.
"Yes, I intend to present each of you with a knife when that lad returns with the change. If he bolts with it, then we must discuss the matter."
"Bet your life," cried the biggest boy, "he'll come back with it; I'll see that he does," and with that he was about to speed across the street when Stranleigh held up his hand.
"Stop it," he commanded. "Let the boy make his purchase in peace. I think he'll come directly
