"It would be very noble and generous of you, indeed," cried Cluness, "and you’ll feel better for it, see if you don’t. But I must go to my paralytic. You fellows wait for me. I’ll be down in twenty minutes." I frowned at Leander when Cluness was gone. "Now what tom-foolery is it this time?" said I. "Tom-foolery," exclaimed Leander, blankly. "It’s philanthropy. By Jove, here’s another chap with his lamps blown out. Look at him." A third unfortunate, blind as the other two, had just approached the Indian and the lavender man. The three were pals, one could see that at half a glance. No doubt they met at this table every night for beer and sandwiches. The last blind man was a Dutchman. I had seen him from time to time on Market street, with a cigar-box tied to his waist and a bunch of pencils in his fist. "Eins!" called the Dutchman to the Kanaka, as he sat down with the lavender man and the Indian. "Eins—mit a hem sendvidge." "Excuse me," said Leander, coming up to their table. What was it? Did those three beggars, their instinct trained by long practice, recognise the alms-giver in the sound of Leander’s voice, or in the step. It is hard to say, but instantly each one of them dropped the mildly convivial and assumed the humbly solicitous air, turning his blind head towards Leander, listening intently. Leander took out his purse and made a great jingling with his money. Now, I knew that Leander had exactly fifteen dollars—no more, no less—fifteen dollars, in three five-dollar gold pieces—not a penny of change. Could it be possible that he was going to give a gold piece to the three beggars? It was, evidently, for I heard him say: "Excuse me. I’ve often passed you fellows on the street, in town, and I guess I’ve always been too short of change, or in too much of a hurry to remember you. But I’m going to make up for it now, if you’ll permit me. Here—" and he jingled his money, "here is a five dollar gold piece that I’d like to have you spend between the three of you to-night, and drink my health, and—and—have a good time, you know. Catch on?" They caught on. "May God bless you, young man!" exclaimed the old lavender man. The Indian grunted expressively. The Dutchman twisted about in his place and shouted in the direction of the bar: "Mek ut er bottle Billzner und er Gotha druffle, mit ein _im_-borted Frankfooter bei der side on." The Kanaka woman came up, and the Dutchman repeated his order. The lavender man paused reflectively tapping his brow, then he delivered himself: "A half spring chicken," he said with profound gravity, "rather under done, and some chicory salad and a bottle of white wine—put the bottle in a little warm water for about two minutes—and some lyonnaise potatoes with onions, and— "Donner wetter," shouted the Dutchman, "genuch!" smiting the table with his fist. The other subsided. The Kanaka woman turned to the Indian.