Richling looked at him a moment in silence, and then broke into a short, grim laugh.
“It’s all gone. There’s no more honey in this flower.” He set his jaw as he ceased speaking. There was a warm red place on either cheek.
“Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, with sudden, quavering fervor, “you kin len’ me two dollahs! I gi’e you my honah the moze sacwed of a gen’leman, Mistoo Itchlin, I nevvah hass you ag’in so long I live!” He extended a pacifying hand. “One moment, Mistoo Itchlin,—one moment,—I implo’ you, seh! I assu’ you, Mistoo Itchlin, I pay you eve’y cent in the worl’ on the laz of that month? Mistoo Itchlin, I am in indignan’ circumstan’s. Mistoo Itchlin, if you know the distwess—Mistoo Itchlin, if you know—’ow bad I ’ate to baw!” The tears stood in his eyes. “It nea’ly kill me to b—” Utterance failed him.
“My friend,” began Richling.
“Mistoo Itchlin,” exclaimed Narcisse, dashing away the tears and striking his hand on his heart, “I am yo’ fwend, seh!”
Richling smiled scornfully. “Well, my good friend, if you had ever kept a single promise made to me I need not have gone since yesterday without a morsel of food.”
Narcisse tried to respond.
“Hush!” said Richling, and Narcisse bowed while Richling spoke on. “I haven’t a cent to buy bread with to carry home. And whose fault is it? Is it my fault—or is it yours?”
“Mistoo Itchlin, seh”—
“Hush!” cried Richling, again; “if you try to speak before I finish I’ll thrash you right here in the street!”