An arctic wind was blowing; it cut through me as I stood there. The boot-black was finishing his work and complaints.

"But I should be 'appy, sir, if only I could make four bob a day," he said.

I looked down at him; it seemed absurd, the belief of this crippled, half-frozen creature, that four-shillings would make him happy. Happiness! the fabled treasure of some far-away heaven I thought it that afternoon; not to be bought with gold, not of this earth!

I said something to this effect. But four shillings a day was enough for the boot-black.

"Why," he said, "I should be as 'appy as the Lord Mayor!"