After a time, the wanderer discovered upon the pavement a pretty child in fine clothes playing with a toy. It was a tiny fire-engine, painted brilliantly in crimson and gold. The wheels rattled as its small owner dragged it uproariously about by means of a string. The babe with his bit of rope trailing behind him paused and regarded the child and the toy. For a long while he remained motionless, save for his eyes, which followed all movements of the glittering thing. The owner paid no attention to the spectator, but continued his joyous imitations of phases of the career of a fire-engine. His gleeful baby laugh rang against the calm fronts of the houses. After a little the wandering baby began quietly to sidle nearer. His bit of rope, now forgotten, dropped at his feet. He removed his eyes from the toy and glanced expectantly at the other child. "Say," he breathed softly. The owner of the toy was running down the walk at top speed. His tongue was clanging like a bell and his legs were galloping. He did not look around at the coaxing call from the small tattered figure on the curb. The wandering baby approached still nearer, and presently spoke again. "Say," he murmured, "le' me play wif it?" The other child interrupted some shrill tootings. He bended his head and spoke disdainfully over his shoulder. "No," he said. The wanderer retreated to the curb. He failed to notice the bit of rope, once treasured. His eyes followed as before the winding course of the engine, and his tender mouth twitched. "Say," he ventured at last, "is dat yours?" "Yes," said the other, tilting his round chin. He drew his property suddenly behind him as if it were menaced. "Yes," he repeated, "it's mine." "Well, le' me play wif it?" said the wandering baby, with a trembling note of desire in his voice. "No," cried the pretty child with determined lips. "It's mine. My ma-ma buyed it." "Well, tan't I play wif it?" His voice was a sob. He stretched forth little covetous hands. "No," the pretty child continued to repeat. "No, it's mine." "Well, I want to play wif it," wailed the other. A sudden fierce frown mantled his baby face. He clenched his fat hands and advanced with a formidable gesture. He looked some wee battler in a war. "It's mine! It's mine," cried the pretty child, his voice in the treble of outraged rights. "I want it," roared the wanderer. "It's mine! It's mine!" "I want it!" "It's mine!"