“He is. Think now. Search that crack-brained memory of yours.”
“Do you mean the p’lice?” asked Brick, and from his slightly open mouth Barry caught a gleam of pink gums and white ivory.
“Of course I do. He’s mortally afraid of him.”
“Dat’s true, dat’s true,” and Brick burst into a guffaw of laughter. “De p’liceman comes, de tramp runs, if he aint squared him, an’ it takes lots of cash to square de whole p’lice of dis here country.”
“Don’t you leave this place,” said Barry, warningly.
“Mistah,” said the boy, and his grin vanished, “dere’s two Bricks. One Brick he say, ‘Boy, don’ you get out o’ smell o’ dose fleshpots in de Jedge’s kitchen.’ De odder Brick he say, ‘Run, boy, run—dere’s fun in de city—run, boy, run.’”
“It’s the button boy that says stay, isn’t it?” inquired Barry, with a glance at Brick’s official garments on the bed.
“Yes, sah; dose buttons is anchors. Brick can’t run wid dem. Dey is ruspectability.”
“Then you’ll have to stay,” said Barry, getting up and moving toward the door, “for I’m going to carry off your plain clothes.”
Brick followed him anxiously. “Mistah, you don’ lay out fo’ to take away po’ Brick’s wardrobe?”