“Nothin’,” was the sobbing reply; and then the boy ran to the only living thing he knew who would sympathize with him in his grief.
Bobby stood back in astonishment as he saw Tim lie down by the side of that wonderful hunting dog, and, pouring out his grief in indistinct words, sob and cry in deepest distress.
“What is the matter, Tim? Don’t cry so, but tell me what ails you.”
It was some time before Tim would speak; but when once he did open his heart to his newly-made friend he told the entire story from the time he ran away from Captain Babbige’s house up to the last whipping he had received. When he had concluded he said, in the most sorrowful tone:
“I jest wish I was dead, Bobby; for there don’t seem to be anybody in all this great big world who wants to have me ’round, ’less it is to lick me when they ain’t got nothin’ else to do.”
“I wouldn’t stand it, Tim, that’s what I wouldn’t do,” said Bobby, indignantly. “I’d jest leave this old boat the very first time she stops.”
But Tim had more wisdom now than he had the day he ran away from Captain Babbige, and he said, mournfully:
“Where could I go if I did run away again? Nobody wants me an’ Tip, an’ we’ve got to have somethin’ to eat.”
This way of putting the matter rather confused Bobby; he had never known what it was to be without a home, and Tim’s lonely position in the world opened his eyes to a new phase of life.
“I’ll tell you what you can do: you can come to my house, an’ stay jest as long as you want to.”