Bertie only imperfectly comprehended. The baby, tired of the sash, began to cry again; and Dick, grown good-natured, danced it up and down.
“How old are you?” said Bertie.
“Nigh on eight,” said Dick.
“Dear me!” sighed the little Earl; this rough, masterful, coarse-tongued boy seemed like a grown man to him.
“You won’t split on us?” said Dick, sturdily.
“What is that?” asked Bertie.
“Not tell anybody you give us the shoes: there’d be a piece of work.”
“As if one told when one did any kindness!” murmured Bertie, with a disgust he could not quite conceal. “I mean, when one does one’s duty.”
“But what’ll you gammon ’em with at home?—they’ll want to know what you’ve done with your shoes.”