"Oh," said the girl behind the counter, "you are wet." "Well, I said I'd come, didn't I? Rain or shine? In five minutes I should have been too late--shop closed--" He lurched a little towards her. She backed away from him. "You--you are--wet--won't you take cold--?" "Never take cold--glad to get here--" He smiled and shut his eyes, opened them and smiled again, nodded and recovered, nodded and came to rest with his head on the counter. The girl made a sudden rush for the rear door of the shop. "Look here, Emily. Poor old duck!" Emily, standing in the doorway, surveyed the sleeping derelict scornfully. "You'd better put him out. It is six o'clock, Jean--" "He was here yesterday--and he was furious because I wouldn't sell him any soldiers. He said he wanted to make a bonfire of the Prussian ones--and to buy the French and English ones for his son," she laughed. "Of course you told him they were not for sale." "Yes. But he insisted. And when he went away he told me he'd come again and bring a lot of money--" The shabby old gentleman, rousing at the psychological moment, threw on the counter a roll of bills and murmured brokenly: "'Ten little soldiers fighting on the line, One was blown to glory, and, then there were nine--!'" His head fell forward and again he slept. "Disgusting," said Emily Bridges; "of course we've got to get him out." Getting him out, however, offered difficulties. He was a very big old gentleman, and they were little women. "We might call the police--" "Oh, Emily--" "Well, if you can suggest anything better. We must close the shop." "We might put him in a taxi--and send him home." "He probably hasn't any home." "Don't be so pessimistic--he certainly has money." "You don't know where he got it. You can't be too careful, Jean--" The girl, touching the old man's shoulder, asked, "Where do you live?" He murmured indistinctly. "Where?" she bent her ear down to him. Waking, he sang: "Two little soldiers, blowing up a Hun-- The darned thing--exploded-- And then there was--One--" "Oh, Emily, did you ever hear anything so funny?" Emily couldn't see the funny side of it. It was tragic and it was disconcerting. "I don't know what to do. Perhaps you'd better call a taxi." "He's shivering, Emily. I believe I'll make him a cup of chocolate." "Dear child, it will be a lot of trouble--" "I'd like to do it--really." "Very well." Emily was not unsympathetic, but she had had a rather wearing life. Her love of toys and of little children had kept her human, otherwise she had a feeling that she might have hardened into chill spinsterhood.