The little girl was earnestly talking with a rough, hungry-looking
fellow in a greasy cap and tattered blue overalls. As Marcus approached,
he heard the following fragment of conversation:

"Yer can't fool this child again, now, I tell yer. Why don't he pay me?
_that's_ what I want to know. I _will_ go up." The man stepped forward,
as if to ascend the stairs.

"Please don't, Mr. Gilsum," said the girl, in a sweet, pleading tone,
laying a red and toilworn little hand softly on his arm. "Papa will pay
you next week. He will, believe me, sir."

"So you told me last week," growled Mr. Gilsum, "and the week before
that. It's all humbug. Why don't he pay me now? _that's_ what I want to
know." Again he put a foot forward, and was again restrained by the hand
of the little girl.

"I have tried very hard to earn money, Mr. Gilsum," said the musical and
plaintive voice, _but_ have been disappointed. Next week I am sure I
will have some for you."

"Pshaw!" ejaculated the man, pulling the greasy cap over his eyes in a
spirit of savage determination. "I can't waste time talking. I _will_
find out why he don't pay me now."

The inexorable Mr. Gilsum pushed aside the feeble hand of the little
girl, and was about to go up the stairs in good earnest, when Marcus
Wilkeson, who had lingered near the door to catch the exact purport of
the conversation, called out to him: