fortune yet. I've earned thirty cents, but I'll
make it up to a dollar before noon."

"You're a good boy, Tom," said the old man, approvingly. "Don't be
afraid of work; I'd work, too, if I wasn't so old. It costs a sight to
live, and I don't earn a cent."

"There ain't no need of it, Jacob; I can earn enough for the two of us.
I'm young and strong. You are old and weak. When I'm an old man, like
you, I won't want to work no more."

"I ain't so very old," said Jacob, jealously. "I'm only turned
sixty-five. There's a good many years of life in me yet."

"Of course there is, Jacob," said Tom, though as he looked at his
companion's thin, wasted face and shaking hand, he felt very doubtful
on this point.

"My father lived to be seventy-five," said Jacob.

"So will you," said Tom, though, to the boy of fifteen, sixty-five
appeared a very advanced age, and but little younger than eighty.

"I'll be stronger soon," said Jacob. "The weather ain't suited me."

"That's it, Jacob. Now let me give you another cup of coffee. It goes
to the right spot, don't it? Don't you be afraid; there's plenty of
it."

So he filled Jacob's cup once more, and the old man drank the contents
with evident relish.

"Now don't you feel better?" asked Tom. "Why, you look ten years
younger'n you did before you sat down. There's nothing like a bully
breakfast to make a feller feel tip-top."

"Yes, I do feel better," said Jacob. "I--I think you're right, Tom. If
I was rich, I'd always have a good breakfast."

"So you shall now, Jacob. It don't cost much. Now lie down again, and
I'll take these dishes down to Mrs. Flanagan."

Tom speedily reappeared, and said, cheerfully:

"If there's nothing more you want, Jacob, I'll go out and look out for
work. Mrs. Flanagan will bring you up some toast at noon, and I'll be
back at six o'clock."

"All right, Tom. Go to work, there's a good boy. It costs a sight of
money to live."

Tom seized his blacking-box and hurried down stairs. He had delayed
longer than he intended, and was resolved to make up for lost time.

CHAPTER II.

STRUCK DOWN.

No sooner had Tom left the room than the old man rose slowly from his
couch, and, walking feebly to the door, bolted it; then, going to a
corner of the room, he lifted a plank from the flooring, and, thrusting
his hand beneath, drew up a tin box. He opened this with a small key
which he wore about his neck, suspended by a cord, and revealed a heap
of