"I don't see how that can be," said Clara, puzzled. "Just now; you said there were three girls and only two boys." "Did I?" said Sam, rather abashed. "I didn't think what I was saying." "Isn't your father alive?" asked the little girl. "No; he's dead." "And do you have to support the family?" "Yes; except what mother does." "What does she do?" "Oh, she goes out washing." "Poor boy, I suppose you have a hard time." "Yes," said Sam; "some days we don't get anything to eat." "O papa, isn't it dreadful?" said Clara, her warm little heart throbbing with sympathy. Her father was less credulous, and he was struck by Sam's hearty appearance. Certainly he looked very unlike a boy who did not have enough to eat. "You don't look as if you suffered much from hunger, my boy," said he, with a penetrating look. "I had a good dinner yesterday," said Sam. "A gentleman gave me some money for showing him the way to the 'Tribune' office." "One dinner seems to have done you a great deal of good," said the man. "It always does me good," said Sam, and here he had no occasion to tell a falsehood. "I hope you carried some of the money home to your mother, and brothers and sisters." "Yes, I did; I bought some meat, and mother cooked it. We don't often have meat." "Perhaps I am doing the boy injustice," thought Mr. Glenham, for this was his name. As for Clara, her childish sympathies were fully aroused. "Papa," she said, "may I give this poor boy the half dollar Aunt Lucy gave me?" "I thought you had arranged some way of spending it, Clara." "So I had, papa; but I'd rather give it to this poor boy," "You may do as you like, my darling," said her father, tenderly. "Here, poor boy, take this home to your mother," said Clara. My readers have probably inferred already that Sam was not a boy of very high principles, but I must do him the justice to say that he felt ashamed to take the money tendered him by the little girl upon whom he had imposed by his false story. "I don't like to take your money," he said, hanging back. "But I want you to," said Clara, eagerly. "I'd a great deal rather your mother would have it." "You may take it," said Mr. Glenham, who was disposed to regard Sam with greater favor, on account of the reluctance he exhibited to profit by Clara's compassion. "Thank you," said Sam, no longer withholding his hand. "You are very kind." By this time they had reached Broadway, and Sam delivered up the bag. Mr. Glenham handed him a quarter. "That is for your trouble," he said. "Thank you, sir," said Sam. A Broadway stage came up, and they both were lost to view. Sam was in good spirits over his good fortune. "Seventy-five cents!" he said to himself. "That's what I call luck. I don't believe Tim's done so well. It aint so hard to make your living in New York, after all. I guess I'll go and get some breakfast." CHAPTER XIX. HOW SAM FARED.