Little Andy presented a pitiful figure as he sat hunched in the corner—his jaunty manner gone; his blond head, usually held at a saucy angle, sunk on his chest. Gloom, deep, impenetrable gloom, enveloped this bright spirit from the Antipodes.
Donald knew now that for all Andy’s munificent manner of yesterday, the three dollars to “eat on” and the sorely needed dinner he had bought had come from a generous heart, but a depleted purse. Here was his benefactor in trouble. How could he help him? He crossed the room, sat down beside Andy, and placed his hand on the little man’s arm.
“Andy, take me on. I’ll fight Garrieau for you.”
Andy came to his feet with a jump and seized Donald by the shoulders. “If you’ll do that, me lad, I’ll be your pal for life. Strike me pink, did you ’ear that? I’ve got a real fighter at last! ’Ooray!” The little fellow was in ecstasies. “We’ll clean Garrieau up,” he went on excitedly, “and then I’ll tyke you to the Stytes, and then to Austrylia, and. . . .”
“Hold on,” interrupted Donald laughingly, “looks like you intend making a professional pug out of me. I’m doing this to help you, Andy, and,” flushing in spite of himself, “I’m broke.”
Andy glanced over Donald’s tall figure with a professional eye. “You ’ave a week to get fit, and ’as you ’aven’t ’ardly any weight to tyke off, you should be top ’ole in that time.”
“May I work out with you?” asked Douglas eagerly.
“Glad to have you,” replied Donald.
A few minutes later the young men stepped to the street. Douglas seemed loth to go.
“Will you come to my home for dinner?” he invited.