“I might better have written him,” murmured Miss Durant, thoughtfully. She sat for some time silently pondering, till the waif asked,—
“Say, youse goin’ to guv me dat present just de same, oin’t youse?”
“Yes, I’ll give you a present,” acceded the girl, opening the book. “I think, Swot,” she continued, “that we’ll have to trouble Dr. Armstrong for another Old Sleuth, as we shall probably finish this to-day. And tell him this time it is my turn to pay for it,” From her purse she produced a dime, started to give it to the boy, hastily drew back her hand, and replacing the coin, substituted for it a dollar bill. Then she began reading rapidly—so rapidly that the end of the story was attained some twenty minutes before the visitors’ time had expired.
“Say,” was her greeting on the following day, as Swot held up another lurid-looking tale and the dollar bill, “Ise told de doc youse wuzn’t willin’ dat he, bein’ poor, should bleed de cash dis time, an’ dat youse guv me dis to—”
“You didn’t put it that way, Swot?” demanded Miss Durant.
“Wot way?”
“That I said he was poor.”
“Soytenly.”
“Oh, Swot, how could you?”
“Wot’s de matter?”