A shivering wretch held out matches for sale.

His hideous red toes protruded through his boots.

"My God, my God!" cried Pasquale, "I can't stand this!" He jumped into a crawling hansom, tore off his own boots, flung them to the petrified beggar and drove home in his stocking-feet.

I stood on the curb and, with mingled feelings, watched the recipient, amid an interested group of bystanders, match the small shapely sole against his huge foot, and with a grin tuck the boots under his arm and march away with them to the nearest pawnbroker.

If Pasquale had been an equally compassionate Briton, he would have stopped to think, and have tossed the man a sovereign.