Without another word the officer turned about, and, still followed by his crowd, left the saloon.
Deacon Cornhill stood staring after the departed officer and his men for some time in silence, while Ragged Rob resumed work upon his shoes.
Brattle’s head reappeared above the top of the counter, coming into sight slowly and with evident caution on the part of the owner, as if he was in doubt about the wisdom of the move.
“You haven’t answered my question,” said the bootblack, bringing Deacon Cornhill back to his situation. “Can my friends come with me?”
“Sart’in; every one of them. How many are there?”
Rob shook his head, though evidently not in reply to the other’s question, but relative to some thought in his mind. Presently he said:
“You are very kind, sir, but it cannot be. This is my life, and I could not fit into another. Good-day, sir; but, stay! I’ll not leave you in the gutter this time. If you want to find a stopping place for the night I will show you the way.”
Feeling that it would be useless to press his wishes further then, Deacon Cornhill followed him in silence, though resolved in his mind to renew the subject at his first opportunity. In the midst of their rapid advance he suddenly became aware of the presence of another boy who was five or six years younger than Rob. He was more ragged than the other; in fact, he was little but rags, though there was a saucy defiance in his pinched, unwashed features which showed that he had little care for his personal appearance, or what another might think.
Rob evidently knew him, for he asked, familiarly:
“What luck to-day, old man?”