“Ready cash,” he asked, looking from one to the other. “For what?”
“Pulling me out of the water the other day,” answered Dud. “Freddy says you’re expecting pay for it.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Dan, the spark flashing into his blue eyes. “You’re ’way off there, Freddy, sure.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean,—I didn’t say,” began poor little Freddy, desperately. “I only thought people always got medals or watches or something when they saved other people, and I told Dud—”
“Never mind what you told him, kid” (Dan laid a kind hand on his little chum’s shoulder); “you mean it all right, I know. But Dud” (the spark in the speaker’s eye flashed brighter,)—“Dud didn’t.”
“I did,” said Dud. “My father will pay you all you want.”
Then Dan blazed up indeed into Irish fire.
“I don’t want his pay: I wouldn’t touch it. You ain’t worth it, Dud Fielding.”
“Ain’t worth what? My father is worth a million,” said Dud quickly.
“That for his million!” and Dan snapped his two fishy fingers under Dud’s Grecian nose. “You ain’t worth a buffalo nickel, Dud Fielding; and I wouldn’t ask one for saving your measly little life.”