“Come, now, hustle out o’ here!”
“I ain’t doin’ any harm.”
“You git out, I say, an’ don’t ye talk back to me!”
“Please, mister——”
“Git!”
Big Bill Bronson, the dock watchman, raised his heavy hand threateningly, and the forlorn little chap, whom he had addressed in such rough tones, climbed painfully out of the box of straw in which he had taken refuge, as he hoped, for the night.
“We don’t want no young wharf rats like you round here,” Big Bill declared. “So, git along with you!”
It was still early in the evening. Perhaps if Terry Carson had waited until it had grown darker he might have ensconced himself in the box unobserved, and spent the night in comparative comfort. But he had been so tired that he had risked seeking his “lodging” early, with the above result.
For days he had tramped the streets of the seaport town, looking for a job. But nobody seemed to want him, or his services. The past fortnight had been a terrible experience to young Terry.
“I warn’t goin’ for to do any harm, sir,” he said, having gotten out of the box of straw.