"No! Was ye? An' he did n't show up? Say, now, dat's tough--an'

T'anksgivin', too!"

"As if I cared for Thanksgiving!" The words came tense with bitterness.

"Aw, come now, furgit it!" There was a look of real concern on the boy's face. "Dat ain't no way ter talk. It's T'anksgivin'!"

"Yes, I know--for some." The man's lips snapped shut grimly.

"Aw, come off! Never mind if yer pal did n't show up. Dere 's odders; dere 's me now. Tell ye what, youse come home wid me. Dere won't be no boat now fur a heap o' time, an' I 'm goin' ter T'anksgive. Come on! 'T ain't fur. I'll wheel ye."

The man stared frankly.

"Er--thank you," he murmured, with an odd little laugh; "but--"

"Shucks! 'Course ye can. What be ye goin' ter do?--set here? What's the use o' mopin' like dis when youse got a invite out ter T'anksgivin'? An' ye better catch it while it's goin', too. Ye see, some days I could n't ask ye--not grub enough; but I can ter-day. We got a s'prise comin'."

"Indeed!" The tone was abstracted, almost irritable; but the boy ignored this.

"Sure! It's a dinner--a T'anksgivin' dinner bringed in to us. Now ain't ye comin'?"

"A dinner, did you say?--brought to you?"

"Yeaup!"

"Who brings it?"

"A lady what comes ter see me an' Kitty sometimes; an' she's a peacherino, she is! She said she 'd bring it."

"Do you know--her name?" The words came a little breathlessly.

"You bet! Why, she's our friend, I tell ye! Her name is Miss Daisy Carrolton; dat 's what 't is."

The man relaxed in his chair. It was the dearest girl in the world.

"Say, ain't ye comin'?" urged the boy, anxiously.

"Coming? Of course I'm coming," cried the man, with sudden energy.

"Just catch hold of that chair back there, lad, and you'll see."

"Say, now, dat's sumpin' like," crowed the boy, as he briskly started the chair. "'T ain't fur, ye know."

Neither the boy nor the Millionaire talked much on the way. The boy was busy with his task; the man, with his thoughts. Just why he was doing this thing was not clear even to the man himself. He suspected it was because of the girl. He could fancy her face when she should find that it was to him she was bringing her turkey dinner! He roused himself with a start. The boy was speaking.

"My! but I 'm glad I stopped an' watched ye tryin' ter sell poipers.

T'ink o' youse a-settin' dere all dis time a-waitin' fur dat boat--an'

T'anksgivin', too! An' don't ye worry none. Ma an' Kitty 'll be right glad to see ye. 'T ain't often we can have comp'ny. It's most allers us what's takin' t'ings give ter us--not givin' ourselves."

"Oh," replied the man uncertainly. "Is--is that so?"

With a distinct shock it had come to the millionaire that he was not merely the disgruntled lover planning a little prank to tease the dearest girl in the world. He was the honored guest of a family who were rejoicing that it was in their power to give a lonely cripple a Thanksgiving dinner. His face grew red at the thought.

"Ugh-uh. An', oh, I say, what _is_ yer name, pardner?" went on the boy. "'Course I called ye 'Mike,' but--"

"Then suppose you still call me 'Mike,'" retorted the man, nervously wondering if he _could_ play the part. He caught a glimpse of the beaming face of his benefactor--and decided that he _must_ play it.

"A' right, den; an' here we be," announced the boy in triumph, stopping before a flight of steps that led to a bas.e.m.e.nt door.

With the aid of his crutches the man descended the steps. Behind him came the boy with the chair. At the foot the boy flung wide the door and escorted his guest through a dark, evil-smelling hallway, into a kitchen beyond.

"Ma! Kitty! look a-here!" he shouted, leaving the chair, and springing into the room. "I 've bringed home comp'ny ter dinner. Dis is Mike.

He was sellin' poipers down ter de dock, an' he lost his boat. I told him ter come on here an' eat wid us. I knowed what was comin', ye see!"

"Why, yes, indeed, of course," fluttered a wan-faced little woman, plainly trying not to look surprised. "Sit down, Mr. Mike," she finished, drawing up a chair to the old stove.

"Thank you, but I--I--" The man looked about for a means of escape.

In the doorway stood the boy with the wheel chair.

"Here, Mr. Mike, mebbe youse wanted dis. Say, Kitty, ain't dis grand?"

he ended admiringly, wheeling the chair to the middle of the room.

From the corner came the tap of crutches, and the man saw then what he had not seen before; a slip of a girl, perhaps twelve years old, with a helpless little foot hanging limp below the skirt-hem.

"Oh, oh!" she breathed, her eyes aflame with excitement. "It is--it is--a _wheel_ one! Oh, sir, how glad and proud you must be--with that!"

The man sat down, though not in the wheel chair. He dropped a little helplessly into the one his hostess had brought forward.

"Perhaps you--you'd like to try it," he managed to stammer.

"Oh, can I? Thank you!" breathed a rapturous voice. And there, for the next five minutes, sat the Millionaire watching a slip of a girl wheeling herself back and forth in his chair--his chair, which he had never before suspected of being "fine" or "wonderful" or "grand"--as the girl declared it to be.

Shrinkingly he looked about him. Nowhere did his eyes fall upon anything that was whole. He had almost struggled to his feet to flee from it all when the boy's voice arrested him.

"Ye see, it's comin' 'bout noon--de grub is; an' it's goin' ter be all cooked so we can begin ter eat right off. Dere, how's dat?" he questioned, standing away to admire the propped-up table he and his mother were setting with a few broken dishes. "Now ain't ye glad youse ain't down dere a-waitin' fur a boat what don't come?"

"Sure I am," declared the man, gazing into the happy face before him, and valiantly determining to be Mike now no matter what happened.

"An' ain't the table pretty!" exulted the little girl. "I found that chiny cup with the gold on it. 'Course it don't hold nothin', 'cause the bottom's fell out; but it looks pretty--an' looks counts when comp'ny's here!"

The boy lifted his head suddenly.

"Look a-here! I'll make it hold sumpin'," he cried, diving his hands into his pockets, and bringing out five coppers and a dime. "Youse jest wait. I 'll get a posy up ter de square. 'Course, we 'd ought ter have a posy, wid comp'ny here."

"Hold on!" The Millionaire's hand was in his pocket now. His fingers were on a gold piece, and his eyes--in fancy--were on a glorious riot of Jacqueminots that filled the little room to overflowing, and brought a wondrous light to three pairs of unbelieving eyes--then Mike remembered. "Here," he said a little huskily, "let me help." But the fingers, when he held them out, carried only the dime that Mike might give, not the gold piece of the Millionaire.

"Aw, g'wan," scoffed the boy, jubilantly. "As if we'd let comp'ny pay!

Dis is our show!" And for the second time that day the Millionaire had found something that money could not buy.

And thus it happened that the table, a little later, held a centerpiece of flowers--four near-to-fading pinks in a bottomless, gold-banded china cup.