“And that one, just riding away on his fine responsible horse, thought he’d make our fortune this frosty new-year’s morning, with his three-pence betwixt three of us—and his grand condition, that we should meet him on this spot, if living, this day twel’-months, and tell him what we did with the pennies! Hurroo! as if we could remember. I say, Willy, suppose you and I toss up for them—head wins?” “No, no,” replied the prudent Willy, putting the half-pence into his pocket, and attempting to button the garment; an unsuccessful attempt, inasmuch as there was no button: “No; I’ll not make up my mind jist yet—I’ll may-be let it lie, and show it to him this day twal’-month. He may give more for taking care of un.” “Easy, easy,” persisted Ned, “let tail win, if you don’t like head.” “I’ll not have it, no way.” “But where’s Richard gone?” inquired the careless boy, after varying his exercise by walking on his hands, and kicking his feet in the air. “I dun know,” replied the other; “it’s most like he’s gone home: that’s where he goes most times: he comes the gentleman over us because of his edication.” “He has no spirit,” said Ned, contemptuously; “he never spends his money like—like me.” “He got the ‘lucky penny,’ for all that,” answered Willy, “for I saw the hole in it myself.” “Look at that, now!” exclaimed Ned; “it’s ever the way with him; see now, if that don’t turn up something before the year’s out. While we sleep under bridges, in tatur-baskets, and ‘darkies,’ he sleeps on a bed; and his mother stiches o’ nights, and days too. He’s as high up as a gentleman, and yet he’s as keen after a job as a cat after a sparra.” The two boys lounged away, while the third—the only one of the three who had earned his penny, by holding a gentleman’s horse for a moment, while the others looked on—had passed rapidly to a small circulating library near Cranbourne Alley, and laying down his penny on the counter, looked in the bookseller’s face, and said— “Please, sir, will you lend me the works of Benjamin Franklin—for a penny?” The bookseller looked at the boy, and then at the penny, and inquired if he were the lad who had carried the parcels about for Thomas Brand, when he was ill. The boy said he was. “And would you like to do so now, on your own account?” was the next question. The pale, pinched-up features of the youth crimsoned all over, and his dark, deep-set eyes were illumined as if by magic. “Be your messenger, sir?—indeed I would.” “Who could answer for your character?” “My mother, sir; she knows me best,” he replied with great simplicity. “But who knows her?” said the bookseller, smiling. “Not many, sir; but the landlady where we live, and some few others.” The bookseller inquired what place of worship they attended. The lad told him, but added, “My mother has not been there lately.” “Why not?” The deep flash returned, but the expression of the face told of pain, not pleasure.