“I would have given my life for them,” the man said, wiping his eyes, “willing.” “I'm sure you would,” Frank answered. “There's the home gone,” the man said, “with all the things that it took ten years' savings of Jane and me to buy; not that that matters one way or the other now. And your traps are gone, too, I suppose, sir.” “Yes,” Frank replied quietly, “I have lost my clothes and twenty-three pounds in money; every penny I've got in the world except half a crown in my pocket.” “And you don't say nothing about it!” the man said, roused into animation. “But, there, perhaps you've friends as will make it up to you.” “I have no one in the world,” Frank answered, “whom I could ask to give me a helping hand.” “Well, you are a plucky chap,” the man said. “That would be a knock down blow to a man, let alone a boy like you. What are you going to do now?” he asked, forgetting for the moment his own loss, in his interest in his companion. “I don't know,” Frank replied. “Perhaps,” he added, seeing that the interest in his condition roused the poor fellow from the thought of his own deep sorrow, “you might give me some advice. I was thinking of getting a place in an office, but of course I must give that up now, and should be thankful to get anything by which I can earn my bread.” “You come along with me,” the man said rising. “You've done me a heap of good. It's no use sitting here. I shall go back to the station, and turn in on some sacks. If you've nothing better to do, and nowhere to go to, you come along with me. We will talk it all over.” Pleased to have some one to talk to, and glad that he should not have to look for a place to sleep, Frank accompanied the porter to the station. With a word or two to the nightmen on duty, the porter led the way to a shed near the station, where a number of sacks were heaped in a corner. “Now,” the man said, “I will light a pipe. It's against the regulations, but that's neither here nor there now. Now, if you're not sleepy, would you mind talking to me? Tell me something about yourself, and how you come to be alone here in London. It does me good to talk. It prevents me from thinking.” “There is very little to tell,” Frank said; and he related to him the circumstances of the deaths of his father and mother, and how it came that he was alone in London in search of a place. “You're in a fix,” the porter said. “Yes, I can see that.”