“Fred,” he whispered, “I’m afraid you think me a brute.”
“No, I don’t,” replied I, astonished; “why ever should I?”
“Why, I offended you just now, when you meant to be kind.”
“No you didn’t,” said I. “I know there are some things you don’t like to talk about, and I—I’ve no right to ask you about them.”
Jack lay silent for some minutes. Then he whispered—
“Old man, you can keep a secret, can’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what was coming.
“I’ve never told it to anybody yet; but somehow it’s awful having no one to talk to,” he said.
“What is it, Jack?” I asked. “I won’t tell a soul.”
He crept closer to me, and his voice dropped to a lower whisper as he said, “Fred—my father is a convict!”