faces in 'stead of that old tin thing. And a bath we'll 'ave. And you shall buy some more pups. And I'll get some proper carving tools. And our fortune's made. See?"
"You nipper," said Beale, slowly and fondly, "the best day's work ever I done was when I took up with you. You're straight, you are—one of the best. Many's the boy would 'ave done a bunk and took the shiners along with him. But you stuck to old Beale, and he'll stick to you."
"That's all right," said Dickie, beginning to put the bright coins back into the bag.
"But it ain't all right," Beale insisted stubbornly; "it ain't no good. I must 'ave it all out, or bust. I didn't never take you along of me 'cause I fancied you like what I said. I was just a-looking out for a nipper to shove through windows—see?—along of that red-headed chap what you never set eyes on."
"I've known that a long time," said Dickie, gravely watching the candle flicker on the bare mantelshelf.
"I didn't mean no good to you, not at first I didn't," said Beale, "when you wrote on the sole of my boot. I'd bought that bit of paper and pencil a-purpose. There!"
"You ain't done me no 'arm, anyway," said Dickie.
"No—I know I ain't. 'Cause why? 'Cause I took to you the very first day. I allus been kind to you—you can't say I ain't." Mr. Beale was confused by the two desires which make it diffi-
