“Nothing,” was the half surly reply; “only I’m goin’ to run away.”
“Run away! Hal! What for?”
“Don’t speak so loud, Pick,” cautioned Hal. “Yes, I’ve really made up my mind. I’m going to-night; and I want you to keep my secret.”
“Oh, Hal, you mustn’t,” Pickles gasped under his breath. “What would I do here without you? You’re the best friend I’ve got.”
Kenyon was surprised. He had had no idea that any of his associates regarded him with such affection, and this manifestation moved him not a little.
“Pickles,” he said warmly; “you’re a peach of a kid. I’ve never got mad at you since I first met you, and you’ve never got mad at me. That’s sayin’ a whole lot. Some kids you’ve got to get mad at every minute to keep ’em from walking all over you.”
“Bad, for instance.”
“Yes—and no. Bad’s a bad one unless you know how to handle him. We’ve always been good friends, and I like him.”
“So do I, but he’s mean sometimes. I like Bun better. But what you going to run away for, Hal? Is it the nugget?”
“Yes—and Mr. Miles. He thinks I’m a thief. And so do all the rest.”