that dream again. Perhaps he would never be able to dream it. He stumbled on a big stone and would have fallen but that Beale caught him by the arm, and as he swung round by that arm Beale saw that the boy's eyes were thick with tears.
"Ain't 'urt yerself , 'ave yer?" he said—for in all their wanderings these were the first tears Dickie had shed.
"No," said Dickie, and hid his face against Beale's coat sleeve. "It's only"
"What is it, then?" said Beale, in the accents of long-disused tenderness; "tell your old farver, then"
"It's silly," sobbed Dickie.
"Never you mind whether it's silly or not," said Beale. "You out with it."
"In that dream," said Dickie, "I wasn't lame."
"Think of that now," said Beale admiringly. "You best dream that every night. Then you won't mind so much of a daytime."
"But I mind more," said Dickie, sniffing hard; "much, much more."
Beale, without more words, made room for him in the crowded perambulator, and they went on. Dickie's sniffs subsided. Silence. Presently—
"I say, farver, I'm sorry I acted so silly. You never see me blub afore and you won't again," he said; and Beale said awkwardly, "That's all right, mate."
"You pretty flush?" the boy asked later on.
"Not so dusty," said the man.
