“Boy, who is your father?” at last asked the man huskily. He almost dreaded to find another father owning a noble boy like this—and such a father as he would be if it were true that he was only a street gamin. The boy still smiled, but a wistfulness came into his eyes. He slowly shook his head. “Dead, is he?” asked the man more as if thinking aloud. But the boy shook his head again. “No, no father,” he answered simply. “Oh,” said the man, and a lump gathered in his throat. “Your mother?” “No mother, never!” came the solemn answer. It seemed that he scarcely felt that either of these were deep lacks in his assets. Very likely fathers and mothers were not on the average desirable kindred in the neighborhood from which he came. The man reflected and tried again. “Who are your folks? They’ll be worried about you. We ought to send them word you’re doing well?” The boy looked amazed, then a laugh rippled out. “No folks,” he gurgled, “on’y jest de kids.” “Your brothers and sisters?” asked Endicott puzzled. “None o’ dem,” said Mikky. “Buck an’ me’re pards. We fights fer de other kids.” “Don’t you know it’s wrong to fight?” Mikky stared. Endicott tried to think of something to add to his little moral homily, but somehow could not. “It’s very wrong to fight,” he reiterated lamely. The boy’s cherub mouth settled into firm lines. “It’s wronger not to, when de little kids is gettin’ hurt, an’ de big fellers what ought ter work is stole away they bread, an’ they’s hungry.” It was an entirely new proposition. It was the challenge of the poor against the rich, of the weak against the strong, and from the lips of a mere babe. The man wondered and answered not. “I’d fight fer your little kid!” declared the young logician. He seemed to know by instinct that this was the father of his baby. Ah, now he had touched the responsive chord. The father’s face lit up. He understood. Yes, it was right to fight for his baby girl, his little Starr, his one treasure, and this boy had done it, given his life freely. Was that like fighting for those other unloved, uncared-for, hungry darlings? Were they then dear children, too, of somebody, of God, if nobody else? The boy’s eyes were telling him plainly in one long deep look, that all the world of little children at least was kin, and the grateful heart of the father felt that in mere decency of gratitude he must acknowledge so much. Poor little hungry babies. What if his darling were hungry! A sudden longing seized his soul to give them bread at once to eat. But at least he would shower his gratitude upon this one stray defender of their rights. He struggled to find words to let the child know of this feeling but only the tears gathering quickly in his eyes spoke for him. “Yes, yes, my boy! You did fight for my little girl. I know, I’ll never forget it of you as long as I live. You saved her life, and that’s worth everything to me. Everything, do you understand?”