Bogle looked disappointed. “Gee! I thought the kid was lonely.”
“Shine, Johnny?” the kid repeated monotonously.
“He’s got a one-track mind, ain’t he?” Bogle said, then seeing the kid was a bit restless, he waved his hand grandly. “Sure, help yourself, son,” and he stretched forward one of his great feet.
The kid flopped on the floor and began turning up Bogle’s trouser ends.
“Well, I’m hungry,” I said. “I’ll tell ’em to leave you something.”
“What’ll I give the little punk?” Bogle asked, watching the kid polishing away at his shoe.
“What you like,” I returned. “These kids ain’t particular.”
Another kid in a dirty red shirt came sidling up the steps. He took one look at Bogle and ran over and shoved White Shirt out of the way.
Bogle blinked. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, as Red Shirt began to lay out his shining materials.
“You’ve got competition,” I said, feeling that I might enjoy this. I leaned against the wall and prepared to watch. From past experience I knew what leeches these kids were, once you encouraged them.