The Rat and Lazarus followed him.
"Is there so little money left?" said Marco. "We have always had very little. When we had less than usual, we lived in poorer places and were hungry if it was necessary. We know how to go hungry. One does not die of it."
The big eyes under Lazarus' beetling brows filled with tears.
"No, sir," he said, "one does not die of hunger. But the insult—the insult! That is not endurable."
"She would not have spoken if my father had been here," Marco said. "And it is true that boys like us have no money. Is there enough to pay for another week?"
"Yes, sir," answered Lazarus, swallowing hard as if he had a lump in his throat, "perhaps enough for two—if we eat but little. If—if the Master would accept money from those who would give it, he would alway have had enough. But how could such a one as he? How could he? When he went away, he thought—he thought that—" but there he stopped himself suddenly.
"Never mind," said Marco. "Never mind. We will go away the day we can pay no more."
"I can go out and sell newspapers," said The Rat's sharp voice.
"I've done it before. Crutches help you to sell them. The platform would sell 'em faster still. I'll go out on the platform."
"I can sell newspapers, too," said Marco.