"Oh, God, how I wish I was straight and handsome like him!" he cried brokenly.
Dick did not look down, but he knew that the tears were standing in the boy's eyes.
"Don't think about it, Ernie," he began.
Ernie shook off his hand and angrily rubbed his eyes with his bony knuckles. He sobbed twice, and then burst forth in a shrill tirade of abuse. Quivering with ungovernable rage, he called Dick every vile name he could lay his proficient tongue to.
Poor Dick offered up no word of protest, no sign of resentment. When Ernie stopped for sheer exhaustion, not only of his lung power but in the matter of epithets, the tall martyr took his hands out of his pockets, stretched himself lazily, and announced, as if it were expected of him as a duty:
"Well, the crowd is beginning to gather at the ticket-wagon. I guess I'd better be strolling among 'em, Ernie. So long."
Ernie looked up eagerly, his mood changing like a flash.
"Good luck, Dick," he said, his eyes sparkling.