“Have you had any yourself?”
“Me? In corse! Do you suppose I ain’t ’ad a pull at it?”
“You haven’t,” said Reginald, eyeing him sharply, and detecting the well-meant fraud in his looks. “Unless you take what’s left there, I’ll throw it all into the road.”
In vain Love protested, vowed he loathed coffee, that it made him sick, that he preferred prussic acid; Reginald was inexorable, and the boy was obliged to submit. In like manner, no wile or device could save him from having to share the slice of bread; nor, when he did put it to his lips, could any grimace or protest hide the almost ravenous eagerness with which at last he devoured it.
“Now you wait till I take back the can,” said Love. “I’ll not be a minute,” and he darted off, leaving Reginald strengthened in mind and body by the frugal repast.
It was not till the boy returned that he noticed he wore no coat.
“What have you done with it?” he demanded sternly.
“Me? What are you talking about?” said the boy, looking guiltily uneasy.
“Don’t deceive me!” said Reginald. “Where’s your coat?”
“What do I want with coats? Do you—”