“Now, look here, Brick,” said Barry, roughly, “I think you are a fool. You’ve got a snug berth here. Just as sure as you go monkeying round River Street you’ll lose it. What did I tell you two days ago?”
“You tole me to stay in de house at night and let de dog loose in de yahd, and not to take up wid strangers.”
“And you’re doing all that, aren’t you?” said Barry, sarcastically.
Brick stared earnestly at him for a few seconds, then he said, “Mistah, dere aint one thing Brick cries fo’, but one.”
“And what is that, you goose?”
“He can’t do what he likes,” said the boy, seriously. “Now, Brick, he always likes his own way. An’ his own way aint Roblee way, nor Jedge way, nor Mastah Titus way, nor Mistah Mafferty way.”
“You idiot! Who does get his own way in the world?”
“De tramp,” said Brick, solemnly, “he do.”
“Does he?” said Barry, “does he? Who is the tramp always afraid of?”
“He aint afraid of no one but hissef.”