He followed her across the footpath. The hunchback looked up at the grave little face.
“Balloons?” he said, half sullenly. “How many—two?”
“I want them all,” Norah told him, smiling.
“Not—the whole lot!” A dull red came into the boy’s white face.
“Yes, we do. My father says so.”
He stared at her, bewildered.
“There—there ain’t many days I sell more’n five or six all told,” he said. His voice shook a little. “You ain’t havin’ a loan of me, I s’pose?”
“No, indeed I’m not—truly,” Norah said, pitifully. “We’re going to buy you out.”
The boy began to unfasten the string with uncertain fingers.
“Nothin’ like this ain’t happened to me before,” he said. “It’s—it’s a bit of a slow game sittin’ here all day, hot or cold—an’ people starin’ at you. I wouldn’t mind ’em so much not buyin’—but—but they look at a cove. You’re sure you want the lot?”