"Are you on the cross, or only mouching around?"
This inquiry was Greek to Bertie, and his questioner perceived that he failed to understand.
"You're a fly bloke, that you are! What's your little game? You haven't got a fortune in your pocket, or a marquis for a pa? What do you do to live? I suppose you ain't reckoning to die just yet awhile."
"I wish I could do something, but I can't."
"Oh, you wish you could do something, do you, but unfortunately you can't! Well, you are a trial for the nerves! Have you got any money?"
Bertie hung his head still lower. To be despised by a thief! Was this the result of all his dreams?
"No!"
"Got any friends?"
"I've run away from them."
And here the boy broke down. Turning, and leaning against a pillar, he burst into a passion of tears. The other eyed him for a few moments, whistling beneath his breath.