But David's enthusiasm did not take. There came no sparkle into the boy's eyes, no eagerness into his manner. He looked thoughtfully at David a moment, then shook his head.
"I don't t'ink I'll take it."
"What!" cried David. The possibility of refusal had not occurred to him. He plunged into a fervent portrayal of the advantages of the new place.
"Mebbe you're right," Tom said, when the picture had been painted. "But I'm gettin' used to t'ings at de Pan-American; I likes de boss an' I likes de woik. An' I don't need de extry dollar. No, I don't want no better job dan what I got. It suits me right up to de chin."
He walked, in one shoe and in one stocking, across to David and held out his hand. "But, pard"—a note of huskiness was in his voice—"pard, I appreciate dat you was tryin' to do de fine t'ing by me. Shake."
There was nothing more to be said. Tom went back to the Mayor, and David continued dropping in Saturdays an hour before pay-time.
One evening in early February, just after David had coaled the furnace and settled down to his story, he had a call from Bill Halpin, whom he had not seen since their first meeting. Halpin leaned against the door, after it had been closed, and silently regarded David, a sneering smile upon his face.
"Honest!" he shot out at length, with a short, dry laugh. It was his first word since entering.
David stared at the sarcastic, saturnine figure.
"What do you mean?"