"How is that?" he asked.
"Oh, I came round last night just in time to see you going off with Curly Peters and his chum."
"Why shouldn't I? What's the matter with Curly?"
"Oh, nothing!" replied Dick airily—"only he's a foul-mouthed little blackguard. Perhaps you'll take him with you on Sunday to see Susie?"
That shot struck home, and Jim winced, but he answered sneeringly,—
"You'll be getting another nickname soon: they'll be calling you the Saint."
"They might do worse," replied Dick cheerfully. "Anyhow, I'd make a cleaner saint than Curly."
"That's right!" exclaimed Jim, trying to work himself into a passion; "you're like all the rest. Just because the chap's poor and has no friends you're down on him. I've been through it myself."
The Angel laughed genially.
"There's something in that," he agreed. "You see, we Baxter's Court millionaires"—Dick lived in a tiny house in Baxter's Court—"don't care much to mix up with poor people. But Curly has a few extra points in his favour. He's dirty, he loafs about the town cadging for coppers instead of going to work, he thinks it big to swear, and I don't know that he's over honest."