Pushing back his hat as if to give himself more air, he was about to resume his walk when he became conscious that something had stirred at the far end of the seat.
Straightening his broad shoulders, his quick, alert manner returning, he moved nearer, his eyes searching the gloom.

A newsboy, a little chap of seven or eight, his papers under him, lay fast asleep.
For an instant he watched the rise and fall of the boy's breath, adjusted the short, patched coat about the little fellow's knees, and then slid back to his end of the bench.
"Same old grind," he said to himself, "no home--no money--cold--maybe hungry.

Never too young to suffer--never too old to eat your heart out.
What a damnable world it is!" Rising to his feet, he felt in his pocket for a coin, widened the pocket of the waif's jacket, and slipped it in.

The boy stirred, tightened his grasp on his papers, and lay still.
Felix looked down at him for a moment, turned, and with lightened steps continued his walk.
"Well, thank God," he said as he neared "The Avenue," "Masie was happy one night in her life.".