“And I’m no squealer, either.”
“Of course you aren’t.”
“You can be Mr. Richard Richard if you want—or anything. Mum’s me! But in my opinion you ain’t either one.”
“What’s that?”
“Yuh ain’t Richard and yuh ain’t——”
“S-sh!” Richard glared ferociously.
“Well—you ain’t. That guy,” he pointed towards the spot where the card had been, “I’ve seen his picture in the papers, and he’s an old man, old man with whiskers, he is.”
A look of pain shot across Richard’s face. He turned away and looked steadily for some time out of the open port-hole. Then he came gently to the stricken boy and said:
“Walter, let’s be friends, you and me. You’re right about both names. That man,” his voice caught as he pointed towards the door, “I’m not fit to walk in his footsteps, much less bear his name.... There’s nothing wrong about me, Walter. I want you to take my word for that.”
“Sure there ain’t. An’ there ain’t nothin’ wrong ’bout me, either.”