"You pause for a reply," said Pemberton, treating the inquiry as a joke, yet wondering too, and greatly struck with the boy's intense, if imperfect, vision. "I haven't the least idea."
"And what good does it do? Haven't I seen the way people treat them—the "nice" people, the ones they want to know? They'll take anything from them—they'll lie down and be trampled on. The nice ones hate that—they just sicken them. You're the only really nice person we know."
"Are you sure? They don't lie down for me!"
"Well, you shan't lie down for them. You've got to go—that's what you've got to do," said Morgan.
"And what will become of you?"
"Oh, I'm growing up. I shall get off before long. I'll see you later."
"You had better let me finish you," Pemberton urged, lending himself to the child's extraordinarily competent attitude.
Morgan stopped in their walk, looking up at him. He had to look up much less than a couple of years before—he had grown, in his loose leanness, so long and high. "Finish me?" he echoed.
"There are such a lot of jolly things we can do to gether yet. I want to turn you out—I want you to do me credit."
Morgan continued to look at him. "To give you credit—do you mean?"
"My dear fellow, you're too clever to live."
"That's just what I'm afraid you think. No, no; it isn't fair—I can't endure it. We'll part next week. The sooner it's over the sooner to sleep."
"If I hear of anything—any other chance, I promise to go," said Pemberton.
