"It's me, Butcher," said the Big Man, slipping his hand into the other's; "I—I wanted to know."
"You aren't going to get sentimental, are you, youngster?" said Stevens, disapprovingly.
"Please, Butcher," said the Great Big Man, pleadingly, "don't be cross with me! Is there any hope?"
"The Doctor won't see me, young one," said the Butcher, "but the at-mosphere was not encouraging."
"I'm sorry."
"Honest?"
"Honest."
"You damn little runt!"
They went hand in hand over to the chapel, where they chose the back steps and settled down with the great walls at their back and plenty of gravel at their feet to fling aimlessly into the dusky night.
"Butcher?"