Dennis says, in his teasing way, he never believed in my “athletics” till he saw me leap in through that window. He was not far behind.
“Jem!”
“Jack!”
When Jem released me and I looked round, Charlie was resting in Dennis O’Moore’s arms and
gazing up in his own odd, abrupt, searching way into the Irish boy’s face.
“Isaac!” he half laughed, half sobbed: “Dennis is afraid of hurting this poor rickety body of mine. Come here, will you, and pinch me, or pull my hair, that I may be sure it isn’t all a dream!”
THE END.
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,
London & Bungay.