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Author of "Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage-Patch," "Lovey Mary," "Mr. Opp," etc.

Of all the lonesome people in London, I suppose Leonard Vincent was just about the lonesomest! He sat with his feet tucked under him in the stiff window-seat in Miss Meeks' stiff drawing-room, and looked down disconsolately into the wet, dreary street. Three weeks before, he and his mother had come over from America to England for a joyful holiday, and no sooner had they landed than his mother was seized with a fever and carried away to a great hospital, and he was left in charge of Miss Meeks, the strange landlady.

Miss Meeks meant to be very kind; she saw that he was properly clothed and fed, and she tried, in a way, to amuse him, but she did not know any more about little boys than she did about little lions, or little tigers, or other little wild animals.

As Leonard sat watching the raindrops trickle down the pane and thought about his mother and what a long time she had been away, he could not keep from crying a little, even if he was nine years old, and the captain of a ball team when he was at home.

"Now, Leonard," said Miss Meeks, bustling into the room, "you stop that moping this minute! Did n't I give you permission to look at the books on the table if your hands were clean?" "Yes 'm, but I 've already looked at them." "Would you like to cut things out with scissors?" she asked vaguely.

Leonard shook his head; he had done that two years ago, when he was seven.

"Well, you can't sit there moping all day. Why don't you go out for a walk; it is n't raining enough to matter."

"Where can I go?"

“Oh, dear, what a tiresome boy! Have n't I told you you could go as far as the park one way, and down to the Embankment the other? Just be sure to mind the crossings, and be home by five."

Leonard reluctantly put on his hat and coat and started forth. On sunny days he often went to St. James's Park and wistfully watched the children playing on the banks of the stream, or hung over the charts of water-fowls along the walk, trying to find the different names of the fat birds that waddled about in the bushes. But to-day he knew it would be cold and lonesome in the park, and even the ducks would be under cover, so he turned listlessly toward the Embank

ment.

The Victoria Embankment is the river-front along the Thames, and Leonard usually liked to watch the boats that came and went, and the funny two-storied street-cars, and the soldiers that sometimes marched there. But to-day he was not interested in any of these sights. There was just one thing in the world that he wanted, and that was his mother!

As he walked along blinking very hard, and trying to swallow the lump that would come in his throat, he suddenly stumbled over something on the pavement.

Looking down, he saw it was a wooden leg,

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and it belonged to an old man who was drawing wonderful pictures in colored chalk on the pave

ment.

"So sorry, sir," said the old man, hunching himself back against the wall, quite as if he were used to apologizing for being stepped on.

Leonard immediately became interested; in the first place, he had never before been called "sir," and, in the second, he had made the exciting discovery that the old man's other leg was wooden, too!

After he had stood watching for some time, the old man looked up:

"Do ye like 'em?" he asked.

For a moment, Leonard did not know whether he meant the wooden legs or the pictures, but the kindly look on the old face reassured him.

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'Course I do," he said heartily; "I think you can draw fine."

"Well, hit ain't whut ye might say high hart, but hit turns me a' honest penny."

By this time, Leonard had squatted down beside him, and was watching the magic growth of a cottage that neither Queen Anne nor any other queen would have answered for architecturally.

"Hit's all in the knowin' 'ow," the old man continued. "You l'arn 'ow to make a 'ouse, an' ye l'arn 'ow to make a ship, an' a tree mayhap, an' then you mixes of 'em up haccordin' to yer fancy. If hit 's a sunset scene you 're haimin'

at, you gives 'em a pink tint, but if hit 's moonlight, you makes 'em blue."

"How do you make the moon so round?" "Well, some favors usin' a shilling for the purpose, but I most generally does it with a carper, that bein', as you might say, more 'andy like."

"Is this one going to be a moonlight scene?" asked Leonard.

"Yes, sir, a moonlight marine. This 'ere effect is a boat."

"I knew it!" cried Leonard, triumphantly; "why don't you put a name on the side of it?"

"I ain't awerse," said the old man, obligingly, "whut name would ye favor?"

"The U. S. A.," said Leonard; "and, if you don't mind, I think it would be awful nice to do the letters in red, white, and blue."

"Right-o!" said the old man, suiting the action to the word. "Whut might your name be, lad?" "Leonard Vincent. What 's yours?"

"Whurtle, old Jim Whurtle. I been 'Old' Jim Whurtle for a quarter of a century."

By this time, Leonard was sitting flat on the pavement beside Mr. Whurtle, watching every movement of the chalk with flattering absorption.

"Do you make people as good as you do boats ?" he asked, almost reverently."

"Well, I can't say as I don't," replied Mr. Whurtle, modestly; "I do Mr. Gladstone, an' Lord Kitchener, an' Lloyd George."

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"And not George Washington?" asked Leonard, incredulously, "or Teddy?"

"Who's Teddy?"

"Why, Mr. Roosevelt, of course. Anybody can do him if they have a piece of chalk. I can " The hint was not taken, and Leonard's ability as an artist was not put to the test. But he stayed on, nevertheless, watching the growth of one wonderful masterpiece after another, until Big Ben reminded him that it was time to be going home.

Big Ben is the great clock in the high tower that rises over the Houses of Parliament, and it rules the comings and goings of everybody in that part of London. It is not just an ordinary clock, for it has a wonderful set of chimes called the Westminster chimes, and every fifteen minutes all through the day and night, it sings out the passing hour.

"Well, I'll have to be going," said Leonard, reluctantly; "will you be here tomorrow?"

Mr. Whurtle lay down his chalk and looked far off into space.

"Aye, lad," he said, "tomorrow, an' the next day, an' the day followin'."

"How early in the morning?" asked Leonard.

"Not afore noon. Mr. Minny fetches me 'ere in 'is cart on 'is second round, an'

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this Mr. Whurtle laughed for the first time, a silent, fat laugh, that shook his brown waistcoat up and down and sent the wrinkles running all over his kind old face.

From this time on, Leonard ceased to be the

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"THIS ERE EFFECT IS A BOAT.'"

lonesomest little boy in London; in fact, he became a very busy and interested boy, and all because he had discovered a friend. Every morning he practised with his own crayons at home, and, as soon as lunch was over, he hurried down to the Embankment to find Mr. Whurtle, and to watch the new pictures that were drawn each day on the pavement.

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