We put Crab on a comfortable bed of rags in an old shoe box, and then strolled, hand-in-hand, across that most delightful of New York breathing-places, Stuyvesant Square.
“Uncle Teddy!” exclaimed Billy with ardor; “I wish I could do something to show you how much I think of you for being so good to me. I don’t know how. Would it make you happy if I was to learn a hymn for you—a smashing big hymn—six verses, long metre, and no grumbling?”
“No, Billy; you make me happy enough just by being a good boy.”
“Oh, Uncle Teddy!” replied Billy decidedly, “I’m afraid I can’t do it. I’ve tried so often and I always make such an awful mess of it.”
“Perhaps you get discouraged too easily—”
“Well, if a savings-bank won’t do it, there ain’t any chance for a boy. I got father to get me a savings-bank once and began being good just as hard as ever I could for three cents a day. Every night I got ’em, I put ’em in reg’lar, and sometimes I’d keep being good three whole days running. That made a sight of money, I tell you. Then I’d do something, ma said, to kick my pail of milk over, and those nights I didn’t get anything. I used to put in most of my marble and candy money, too.”
“What were you going to do with it?”
“It was for an Objeck, Uncle Teddy. That’s a kind of Indian, you know, that eats people and
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