"A little one! But in my opinion it don't count," said Mr. Bloggs. "You were thinking of those who need food more than you and that turns it square around. I call it a golden lie--I do." The minister had scarcely turned the corner of the street, when he met Hiram Blenkinsop, who was shivering along without an overcoat, the dog Christmas at his heels. Mr. Singleton stopped him. "Why, man! Haven't you an overcoat?" he asked. "No, sir! It's hangin' on a peg in a pawn-shop over in Hazelmead. It ain't doin' the peg any good nor me neither!" "Well, sir, you come with me," said the minister. "It's about dinner time, anyway, and I guess you need lining as well as covering." The drunkard looked into the face of the minister. "Say it ag'in," he muttered. "I wouldn't wonder if a little food would make you feel better," Mr. Singleton added. "A little, did ye say?" Blenkinsop asked. "Make it a lot--as much as you can accommodate." "And do ye mean that ye want me to go an' eat in yer house?" "Yes, at my table--why not?" "It wouldn't be respectable. I don't want to be too particular but a tramp must draw the line somewhere." "I'll be on my best behavior. Come on," said the minister. The two men hastened up the street followed by the dejected little yellow dog, Christmas. Mrs. Singleton and her daughter were out with a committee of the Children's Helpers and the minister was dining alone that day and, as usual, at one o'clock, that being the hour for dinner in the village of Bingville. "Tell me about yourself," said the minister as they sat down at the table. "Myself--did you say?" Hiram Blenkinsop asked as one of his feet crept under his chair to conceal its disreputable appearance, while his dog had partly hidden himself under a serving table where he seemed to be shivering with apprehension as he peered out, with raised hackles, at the stag's head over the mantel. "Yes." "I ain't got any _Self_, sir; it's all gone," said Blenkinsop, as he took a swallow of water. "A man without any Self is a curious creature," the minister remarked. "I'm as empty as a woodpecker's hole in the winter time. The bird has flown. I belong to this 'ere dog. He's a poor dog. I'm all he's got. If he had to pay a license on me I'd have to be killed. He's kind to me. He's the only friend I've got." Hiram Blenkinsop riveted his attention upon an old warming-pan that hung by the fireplace. He hardly looked at the face of the minister. "How did you come to lose your Self?" the latter asked. "Married a bad woman and took to drink. A man's Self can stand cold an' hunger an' shipwreck an' loss o' friends an' money an' any quantity o' bad luck, take it as it comes, but a bad woman breaks the works in him an' stops his clock dead. Leastways, it done that to me!" "She is like an arrow in his liver," the minister quoted. "Mr. Blenkinsop, where do you stay nights?"