I doubt if sufficient weight was given to the fact that, even when he was not so turning his mind it strayed in that direction, whence, if any object cast its reflected rays on his retina, those rays never failed to reach his mind also.

On one occasion he picked up the pocket-book a gentleman had just dropped, and, in mingled fun and delight, was trying to put it in its owner's pocket unseen, when he collared him, and, had it not been for the testimony of a young woman who, coming behind, had seen the whole, would have handed him over to the police.

After all, he remained in doubt, the thing seemed so incredible.

He did give him a penny, however, which Gibbie at once spent upon a loaf.
It was not from any notions of honesty--he knew nothing about it--that he always did what he could to restore the things he found; the habit came from quite another cause.

When he had no clue to the owner, he carried the thing found to his father, who generally let it lie a while, and at length, if it was of nature convertible, turned it into drink.
While Gibbie thus lived in the streets like a townsparrow--as like a human bird without storehouse or barn as boy could well be--the human father of him would all day be sitting in a certain dark court, as hard at work as an aching head and a bloodless system would afford.