“Of course there isn’t. That’s why I am going to stand by you and keep you from jail.”
“Huh?”
“That forty lire you got from me for the luggage which was supposed to be on the wharf. That’s what they call obtaining money under false pretences. Good for five years, I think.”
He gave the boy time to get the thought.
“Jail’s not half bad,” Richard looked up reminiscently as if he was speaking from experience. “They give you good grub and work enough to keep you feeling right and sleep enough—that’s all right. But—there’s not a drop to drink. Not—a—drop. Days go, and nights go—nights when you stay awake hour after hour with your tongue as hot and dry as a burnt stick, and you cry out for a little cooling drink, and all you get is a blow on the head. And the days pass and the nights pass; and when you begin to count up the months and maybe years yet to come——”
He stopped suddenly. Walter was holding his head in his hands. The picture was too much for him.
“Well,” said Richard soothingly, “you needn’t worry about me, Walter. I wouldn’t send a dog to a place like that—not unless I were forced.... I have my own reasons for being Mr. Richard. I’m going to trust you to forget all about that card. You keep that a dead secret, old chap, and I’ll stand by you to the last ditch. Is it a go?”
“Sure,” nodded Walter, but the brag had gone out of his voice.
They shook hands on it.