"Well," said Dick reflectively, "I guess you'd better ask Mr. Prull about that. He knows all the facts."
"I beg your pardon, Dick. I'm sorry I spoke so quickly."
"It's all right, kid. No harm done. Don't worry. There won't be anything said about Brad's original intentions. I hope Christine—I should say Mrs. Jenison—is well. I know she must be happy."
"She is both, Dick. She is very deeply interested in your case."
"I hope you won't let her send me roses and sweet violets, kid. That's an awful gag they're workin' now. There's a fellow down the line here that cut his wife's head nearly off in two places—on both sides of the neck—and he's getting pink roses and lilies of the valley by the cab-load."
"Christine is sending books and fruit, and three times a week you are to have a dinner fit for a—"
The sudden fierce glare in the prisoner's eyes caused David to stop in amazement.
"Look here," demanded Dick savagely, "ain't poor Ernie to have any o' these things? Is he to set by and see me eat—what?"
"You are to be treated alike, of course," cried David quickly. Dick's face cleared. He looked down in evident embarrassment.
"Excuse me, kid. I—I always get riled when I think of him getting the worst of anything. I'm sure we'll both be terrible grateful to Chris—to Mrs. Jenison. She's an angel,—as of course you know, kid. Sending me books, eh? Tell her I like Dickens, will you? And, say, there's one book she needn't go to the trouble of sendin' me."