throng
of men, women, and children. Longingly the Millionaire watched them.
He had no mind to spend the next three hours where he was. If he could
be pushed on to the boat, he would trust to luck for the other side.
With his still weak left arm he could not propel himself, but if he
could find some one--

Twice, with one of the newspapers that lay in his lap, he made a feeble
attempt to attract attention; but the Millionaire was used to
commanding, not begging, and his action passed unnoticed. He saw then
in the crowd the face of a friend, and with a despairing gesture he
waved the paper again. But the friend passed by unheeding. What
happened then was so entirely unexpected that the Millionaire fell back
in his chair dumb with amazement.

"Here, Mike, ye ain't on ter yer job. Youse can't sell nuttin' dat
way," scoffed a friendly voice. "Here, now, watch!" And before the
Millionaire could collect his wits he saw the four papers he had bought
that morning to help beguile a dreary day, snatched into the grimy
hands of a small boy and promptly made off with.

The man's angry word of remonstrance died on his lips. The boy was
darting in and out of the crowd, shouting "Poiper, here's yer poiper!"
at the top of his voice. Nor did he return until the last pair of feet
had crossed the gangplank. Then in triumph he hurried back to the
waiting man in the wheel chair and dropped into his lap a tiny heap of
coppers.

"Sold out, pardner! Dat's what we be," he crowed delighted. "Sold
out!"

"But--I--you--" gasped the man.

"Aw, furgit it--'t wa'n't nuttin'," disdained the boy airily. "Ye see,
youse got ter holler."

"To--to 'holler'!"

"Sure, Mike, or ye can't sell nuttin'. I been a-watchin' ye, an' I see
right off ye wa'n't on ter yer job. Why, pardner, ye can't sell
poipers like ye was shellin' out free sody-checks at a picnic. Youse
got ter yell at 'em, an' git dere 'tention. 'Course, ye can't run like
I can"--his voice softened awkwardly as his eyes fell to the crutches
at the man's side--"but ye can holler, an' not jest set dere a-shakin'
'em easy at 'em, like ye did a minute ago. Dat ain't no way ter sell
poipers!"

With a half-smothered exclamation the Millionaire fell back in his
chair. He knew now that he was not a millionaire, but a "Mike" to the
boy. He was not William Seymore Haynes, but a cripple selling papers
for a living. He would not have believed that a turned-up collar, a
turned