there, and I draw my own conclusions,” continued West. “Now about this chicken, half of it is for Braith and myself and half for Colette, but of course you will help me eat my part because I’m not hungry.”
“Neither am I,” began Braith, but Trent, with a smile at the pinched faces before him, shook his head saying, “What nonsense! You know I’m never hungry!”
West hesitated, reddened, and then slicing off Braith’s portion, but not eating any himself, said, good-night, and hurried away to number 470 rue Serpente, where lived a pretty girl named Colette, orphan after Sedan, and Heaven alone knew where she got the roses in her cheeks, for the siege came hard on the poor.
“That chicken will delight her, but I really believe she’s in love with West,” said Trent. Then walking over to the bed: “See here, old man, no dodging, you know, how much have you left?”
The other hesitated.and.flushed.
“Come, old chap,” insisted Trent.
Braith drew a purse from beneath his bolster and handed it to his friend with a simplicity that touched him.
“Seven sous,” he counted; “you make me tired! Why on earth don’t you come to me? I take it d———d ill, Braith! How many times must I go over the same thing and explain to you that because I have money it is my duty to share it, and your duty and the duty of every American to share it with me? You can’t get a cent, the city’s blockaded, and the American Minister has his hands full with all the German riff-raff and deuce knows what! Why don’t you act sensibly?”
