Scotchman--father's a Presbyterian minister. He's a little,
insignificant runt of a chap to look at--but I learned
a long time ago not to judge a singed cat by his looks.
However--where was I?"

"You were going to tell about Tuesday afternoon,
weren't you?"

He nodded gravely, and straightened himself, drawing a long
breath in preparation for the dramatic recital before him.
"On Tuesday afternoon," he began again, with impressive
slowness, "I was walking on Throgmorton Street, about four
o'clock. It was raining a little--it had been raining
on and off all day--a miserable, rotten sort of a day,
with greasy mud everywhere, and everybody poking
umbrellas into you. I was out walking because I'd 'a'
cut my throat if I'd tried to stay in the office another
ten minutes. All that day I hadn't eaten anything.
I hadn't slept worth speaking of for three nights.
The whole game was up for me. I was worse than ruined.
I had half a crown in my pocket. I had ten or twelve pounds
in the bank--and they wouldn't let me overdraw a farthing.
I tell you, I was just plumb busted.

"There came along in the gutter a sandwich-man. I'd seen
the cuss before during the day, walking up and down
near my offices. I took notice of him, because he was
the raggedest, dirtiest, most forlorn-looking cripple you
ever saw in your life. Now I read what was on his boards.
It was the bill of a paper that I had refused to be bled by,