He is a Barnardo boy. I wish we were all
as great and good as Dr. Barnardo. I am proud to have one of his boys
in my household."
The young urchin shrank away, abashed, for it was Miss Connie's voice.
Buck pulled himself together, touched his hat, and opened the carriage
door. But the girl paused on the steps, and her voice was very sincere
as she said: "I mean it, Buckney" (she always called him "Buckney").
"I am very proud to have you here."
Buck touched his hat. "Thank you, madam," was all he said, but his young
heart sang with gratitude. Would he _ever_ get the chance to show her
how he valued her kindness, he wondered. And then--the chance came.
Buck was never a heavy sleeper; his boyhood had been too bedless for
him to attach much importance to sleep now. Too often had the tip of
a policeman's boot stirred him gently, as he lay curled up near an
alley-way in London. Too often had rude kicks awakened him, when down in
the "slums" he huddled, numb with cold and hunger. His ears had grown
acute, his legs nimble in that dreadful, faraway life, and listening
while he slept became second nature.
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