‘Well, I wouldn’t go out killing if I hadn’t more pluck than that,’ said Denny scornfully. ‘You’re not fit for the trade, my lad.’
I did not interpret this time; there was no need; the boy certainly understood. But he had no retort. His face was buried in those slim hands of his. For a moment he was quite still: then he moved a little; it was a movement that spoke of helpless pain, and I heard something very like a stifled sob.
‘Just leave us alone a little, Denny,’ said I. ‘He may tell me what he won’t tell you.’
‘Are you going to let him off?’ demanded Denny, suspiciously. ‘You never can be stiff in the back, Charley.’
‘I must see if he won’t speak to me first,’ I pleaded, meekly.
‘But if he won’t?’ insisted Denny.
‘If he won’t,’ said I, ‘and you still wish it, you may do what you like.’
Denny sheered off to the kitchen, with an air that did not seek to conceal his opinion of my foolish tender-heartedness. Again I was alone with the boy.
‘My friend is right,’ said I gravely. ‘You’re not fit for the trade. How came you to be in it?’