“Don’t be such a fool,” said Titus, gently shaking him. “Anyone would think we were going to hang you.”
“Bylow,” said Brick, faintly, “sic ’em, sic ’em, good dog.”
Bylow turned his head. Titus was still in his tramp suit, Charlie Brown was considerably disheveled from working about his pigeon loft, and Dallas had taken the precaution, when he went into the house hastily to change his good suit of clothes for the one in which he had arrived at the Judge’s. Therefore they were a trio of pretty disreputable-looking boys, and Bylow, after a lazy look at them, glanced at his young master as if to say, “What are you worrying about? You are among friends.” Then he again lay down by the radiator and went to sleep. He knew that those laughing, chattering boys meant no harm to the shuddering Brick, and he took no thought for himself.
“Now,” called Titus, “are you ready?”
“Ay, ay, sir,” responded Charlie Brown.
“Then help me undress the criminal,” said Titus.
In five minutes Brick was seated in a tub of deliciously warm water, and three pairs of kind young hands were lathering him with soap.
He gave one yell at first, then he sat still—and enjoyed it, if the truth must be told.
“Is this a baf, young sah?” he squeaked, fearfully.
“Yes, it’s a ‘baf,’” said Titus; “what did you think it was?”