"Yes—yes!" The boy's eyes implored him,—blue eyes with short black lashes that imparted an oddly childish look to a face that was otherwise thin and sharp with anxiety. "I can do anything. I don't want to live on charity. I can work. I'd love to work—for you."
"You're a rum little devil, aren't you?" said Saltash.
"I'm honest, sir! Really I'm honest!" Desperately the bony hands clung.
"You won't be sorry if you take me. I swear you'll never be sorry!"
"What about you?" said Saltash. He was looking down into the upraised face with a semi-quizzical compassion in his own. "Think you'd never be sorry either?"
A sudden smile gleamed across the drawn face. "Of course I shouldn't!
You're English."
"Ah!" said Saltash, with a faintly wry expression. "Not necessarily white on that account, my friend, so don't run away with that idea, I beg! I'm quite capable of giving you a worse drubbing than the good Antonio, for instance, if you qualified for it. I can be a terrifically wild beast upon occasion. Look here, you imp! Are you starved or what? Do you want something to eat?"
The wiry fingers tightened on his arm. "No, sir—no, my lord—not really.
I often don't eat. I'm used to it."
"But why the devil not?" demanded Saltash. "Didn't they feed you over there?"
"Yes—oh, yes. But I didn't want it. I was—too miserable." The blue eyes blinked rapidly under his look as if half-afraid of him.
"You little ass!" said Saltash in a voice that somehow reassured. "Sit down there! Curl up if you like, and don't move till I come back!"