“Before she went away.”
“All right. You get the job.”
“Thanks. I knew I would,” said the urchin confidently. “I c’n start in to-morrow.” He watched, sympathetically, the other fold the note and bestow it in his pocket.
“Mr. Robson,” he said. “She said a queer thing when she gimme the letter.”
“What was that?”
“She said—you know how her eyes get solemn and big and—and kinda light up, deep inside, when she means a thing hard—she said, ‘Buddy, I shall like to think that you and he are looking after each other.’ What did she mean by that?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think it over.”
“Well, I been thinkin’ it over an’ I don’t get it.” He paused. Then with the self-centered simplicity of boyhood, “Mr. Robson, I miss her somethin’ fierce. You don’t know how I miss her.”
“Don’t I!” retorted Jeremy involuntarily, with a stab of pain.
“Nobody could,” stated the other with conviction.