"Hold fast to what?" he demanded savagely. "To a bug stuck on a needle?"
"Yes. And to me who trusts you. To Madame who likes you. To the dear child who put bug and needle into your hand because she knew it was good work and trusted your hand to do it. And more than all, to that other Me you're finding—your own true self, John Flint! Hold fast, hold fast!"
He stopped and stared at me.
"I'm believing him again!" said he, grievously. "I've been sat on while I was hot, and my number's marked on me, 23. I'm hoodooed, that's what!"
Tramp, tramp, stump, stump, up and down, the two of us.
"All right, devil-dodger," said he wearily, after a long sullen silence. "I'll stick it out a bit longer, to please you. You've been white—the lot of you. But look here—if I beat it some night ... with what I can find, why, I'm warning you: don't blame me—you're running your risks, and it'll be up to you to explain!"
"When you want to go, John Flint—when you really and truly want to go, why, take anything I have that you may fancy, my son. I give it you beforehand."
"I don't want anything given to me beforehand!" he growled. "I want to take what I want to take without anybody's leave!"
"Very well, then; take what you want to take, without anybody's leave! I shall be able to do without it, I dare say."
He turned upon me furiously: