"I didn't know what to say. I was afraid o' queerin' somet'ing you might 'a' told her. I just said you was better."
David tacked up another print, during which time Tom again watched him thoughtfully. Then Tom asked, abruptly:
"She's a friend o' yourn, ain't she?"
"No."
"I t'ought she was!" His voice was disappointed. "Why ain't she?"
"Well—I guess she don't like me."
"Don't like you!" cried Tom indignantly. "Den she's had a bum steer!" He thought. "I wonder what's queered her agin' you?"
"Oh, several things," David answered vaguely. Then obeying an impulse, born of the universal craving for sympathy, he went on: "For one thing, she believes I put you up to stealing."
"She t'inks you knew anyt'ing about dat!" he cried, springing up excitedly.
"She believes you were stealing regularly, and that it was all done under my direction."