“Oh, mister,” he said, whimpering, “won’t you come wid me? I’m afraid my mudder will beat me if I go home alone.”
“What makes you think your mother will beat you?”
“Coz she sent me out for a bottle of whisky this mornin’ and I broke it.”
“Does your mother drink whisky?” asked Gerald compassionately.
“Yes, mister, she’s a reg’lar tank, she is.”
“Have you any brothers or sisters?”
“I have a little brudder. She licks him awful.”
“Have you no father?”
“No; he got killed on the railroad two years ago.”
“I am sorry for you,” said Gerald, in a tone of sympathy. “Here is a quarter.”