The boy, who was leaning limply against his shoulder, stiffened a little at this, and said in a gruff way: “I’m not going home. Besides, it isn’t here. I shall do very well. Don’t trouble—pray!”
“But where is your home?” Gilly asked.
“I won’t say.”
This was uttered in rather a belligerent tone, which caused Gilly to ask: “Have you run away, perhaps?”
The boy was silent, and made an effort to scramble to his feet, thrusting the Duke away.
“I beg your pardon!” Gilly said, smiling. “I should know better than to ask you such awkward questions, for people have been doing the same to me all my life. We will not talk about your home, and you shan’t tell me more than you care to. But would you not like to get up into my gig, and let me drive you wherever it is you are making for?”
There was another silence, while the boy made an ineffectual attempt to brush the mud from his pantaloons. His round, freckled face was still very pale, and his mouth had a sullen pout. He cast a suspicious, sidelong look at the Duke, and sniffed, and rubbed his nose. “They took all my money,” he repeated. “I don’t know what to do, but I won’t go home!” He ended on a gulping sob that betrayed his youth, flushed hotly, and glared at the Duke.
Gilly was far too tactful to notice that unmanly sob. He said cheerfully: “Well, to be sure, it is very hard to decide on what is best to be done without having time to reflect. Have you friends in the neighbourhood to whom I could take you?”
“No,” muttered the boy. He added grudgingly: “Sir.”
“Then I think I had better drive you to the inn where I am putting up, and see what can be done for that black eye of yours. What is your name?”