Part 41 (2/2)

”'Pon my word,” said the old gentleman, ”you're a queer boy! I guess you've got the true Harvey blood in you. Never neglect a friend--eh? And never owe a penny. Well now, madam, will you see to this? And what amount of money ought I to give you for the woman?”

Mrs. Anderson named what she thought would be a correct sum, and immediately afterwards the old gentleman produced the money from his waistcoat pocket.

It was a hard moment for Ronald when he said good-bye, but after he got into the cab he could not help feeling both surprised and elated. He could not help staring and staring at the old gentleman.

”Was it your photograph,” he said at last, ”that my father kept in his dressing-room?”

”I expect so,” said the old gentleman.

”It's surprising,” said Ronald, ”how I forget. But now I remember. He loved you--he used to talk to me about you. He said it was you taught him first to be brave.”

”Bless him--bless him!” said the old gentleman.

His voice got a little raspy; it is certain that his eyes were a little dim.

”Perhaps,” said Ronald--he had a marvelous way of comprehending the situation--”but for you he would not have been a V. C. man.”

”G.o.d bless you! It was in himself--he had the n.o.blest heart, the grandest nature! There, boy! don't upset me. 'Pon my word! I hated the thought of having you---- And I hated going to you,” said Ronald; ”but----”

The old face looked into the young face, and the young face looked into the old face, and then they both laughed.

Before they reached the old gentleman's hotel Ronald had so far advanced to a friendly footing that he had peered into the contents of the old man's pocket, had pulled out his watch, had applied it to his ear, and had even gone the amazing length of demanding one for himself.

CHAPTER XXVI.

TWO CUPS OF COFFEE.

When Harris parted from Giles and Connie--on the very same day that Connie had gone to tea with Ronald, on the very same day that Ronald had visited Giles--he was as troubled and miserable as man could be. There was but one brave thing for him to do--he ought to confess his sin.

Where Sue could be he had not the faintest idea. Why was she absent? It was days now since she had left her home--Sue, of all people--Sue, with a little delicate brother like Giles. It was unlike her to go. There could be but one reason. Harris had taken means to ascertain whether poor Sue had been up before the magistrates. He knew enough about the law, and about crime generally, to know that she would be taken up for theft to Bow Street; but beyond doubt she had never gone there. Where in all the world could she be? Harris was by no means sufficiently sorry to give himself up for conscience's sake; but he was in a state of nervousness and great distress of mind.

As he walked down a side-street, his hands in his pockets, his rough fur cap--which he generally wore slouched--well off his eyes, he was suddenly accosted by a red-haired boy, who looked at him with a very innocent face and inquired meekly ”ef he were lookin' for a job.”

”None o' yer sauce, youngster,” said Harris, pa.s.sing on.

”I don't mean the least sauce in life, master,” said the red-haired boy, still in the most humble and gentle tone. ”I only thought ef we were goin' in the same direction we might p'rhaps cheer each other up.”

”You're a likely youngster, you ere,” he said, looking down at him with the grimmest of smiles.

”Yus, my mother says as I'm well grown for my hage,” replied Pickles; and then, keeping pace with the tall man, he began to whistle softly.

Harris returned to his interrupted thoughts, and soon forgot the small boy, who had to run to keep up with his long strides. Suddenly the little boy exclaimed in a shrill, eager treble:

”I say, mister!”

”Wot now, young 'un?”

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