"Right you are!" said the youth. "Oh, now I see you."
The speaker was tall and overgrown, as I have said. He was also painfully thin, and his clothes were two or three sizes too small for him, so that his long, bony arms protruded from his coat-sleeves, and his legs appeared to have outgrown his pants. His face was long, and his cheeky were hollow.
"He reminds me of Smike, in 'Nicholas Nickleby,'" thought Grit.
"Take your supper, young one, and eat it quick," said the youth, for he was not more than eighteen.
Grit needed no second invitation. He quickly explored the contents of the basket. The supper consisted of cold meat and slices of bread and butter, with a mug of tea. To Grit everything tasted delicious, and he did not leave a crumb.
"My! haven't you got an appetite?" said the youth.
"I haven't had anything to eat since morning," said Grit apologetically—"that is, only a sandwich."
"Say, what are you here for?" asked the youth curiously.
"I don't know," answered Grit.