“I don’t think so,” said Tom. “Do you see how the little chap is shivering? He’ll catch his death of cold if he doesn’t change his wet clothes soon. What is your name, my little boy?”
“Jimmy Grady,” said the boy, his teeth chattering.
“He’s got your name, James,” said Tom slyly. “He’s your namesake.”
“Don’t associate me with him,” said James loftily.
“Of course it’s very impudent for him to have the same name,” said Tom smiling. “Perhaps he’ll change it. Where do you live, Jimmy?”
“There,” said the boy, pointing to a small, unpainted dwelling further up the river, and about twenty rods from the bank.
“Turn back,” said Tom, “we’ll carry him home.”
“I don’t choose to trouble myself about such a beggar as that,” said James. “We’ll go on, and on our way back we’ll land him.”
“And let him die of exposure?” said Tom sternly.
“Oh, such beggars are tough,” said James, in a tone quite destitute of feeling. “Row away, Edwin.”