"Who's he?" inquired Tony, with an eager face.
"Him--Christ. It's his other name," answered the old man.
"Ah! I see," he said, nodding. "Well, if I can't get 'em myself,
I'll think about it. He'll want me to work for him, you know. Where
does he live?"
"I'll tell you all about him, if you'll come to see me," replied Oliver.
"Well," said the boy, "I'll just look in after Friday, and see if the
little 'un's mother's come back. Goodbye,--good-bye, little miss."
He could take Dolly's hand into his own this morning, and he looked down
curiously at it,--a small, rosy, dimpled hand, such as he had never seen
before so closely. A lump rose in his throat, and his eyelids smarted
with tears again. It was such a little thing, such a pretty little thing,
he said to himself, covering it fondly with his other hand. There was no
fear that Tony would forget to come back to old Oliver's house.
"Thank you for my breakfast," he said, with a choking voice; "only if
I do come to see you, it'll be to see her again--not for anythink as
I can get."
CHAPTER V.
FORSAKEN AGAIN.
The next three days were a season of unmixed happiness to old Oliver.
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