No, he didn’t want even beer, and the meal that had been ordered was quite fit for a king without any additions. The boy dismissed the waiter, but continued studying the bill of fare for some moments in some anxiety. “Do you think that will be enough, sir?” he asked presently. “They’ve got some fried liver and some cold boiled ham, that I know would be good.” Brent assured his anxious entertainer that he would be quite unable to touch liver or ham after such a repast as had been ordered. The waiter returned to ask what he should serve first. “Bring it all at once,” was the boy’s prompt instruction, “and hurry it up, too.” It came presently, “all at once,” and it quite filled the table. “Just help yourself, sir. Ain’t this great? Golly, what a feed!” and the boy sat forward on the edge of his chair, his eyes dancing with excitement, and urged his guest to sample all the dishes at once. Brent took a cutlet and began eating. The boy’s enthusiasm was infectious, and he could not help catching the spirit which had made the ragged urchin a picture of unalloyed delight that would warm the coldest heart. It was a long time since he had seen a hungry boy eat, and Brent watched him with admiration and envy. To the boy, it was the occasion of the supremest happiness the year had brought. So it was to Brent. “He’s a smart little rascal, and handsome, too, under the dirt and rags,” thought the young man. The little fellow was too busy to talk during the first few minutes of his feasting. When the edge was off his appetite, Brent drew him out, and he was soon telling volubly about his life in the streets and fortune’s frowns and favors. He was a waif, about eleven he supposed, of shadowy antecedents, and contented with his lot. He had been to school, could read and write, had no parents, and “didn’t want any.” Chaps that did have, most of them, had a harder time of it than he. Brent asked him what he meant to do with the seven pounds that he had given him. “I don’t quite know yet, sir,” the lad replied slowly. “I’ll give some of it to the manager at the Boys’ Lodging, so’s I’ll have a warm place to sleep nights when trade’s bad next winter. Then I think I’ll try papers. You see, you can do jolly well with papers when you’ve money, sir. There’s a place in Whitechapel Road where I can get a fine suit, secondhand, you know, sir, for three bob, instead o’ these,” and he looked down at his dilapidated apparel disdainfully.