“Yes, I shall, because I must. Look ye here, Maxy, if we can’t help it, and we like one another, why shouldn’t we still be the best of friends?”
Max stared at him.
“Would you be friends?” he said at last.
“I should think I will—that is, if you’ll be friends with such a poor beggar as I shall be now.”
Max gripped his hand, and the two lads were in that attitude when The Mackhai suddenly entered the room.
Max drew in his breath sharply, as if in pain, and lay back gazing at his host, who came forward and shook hands, before seating himself at the bedside.
It was not the first meeting by several, during which Max had been treated with a kindness and deference which showed his host’s anxiety to efface the past.
“Come, this is better,” he said cheerily. “Why, I should say you could get up now?”
“Yes, sir; that is what I have been telling your son,” said Max hastily.
“Yes, father; he wants to get up and rush off at once; and I tell him it’s all nonsense, and that he is to stay!”