"It's best for you, Buster," insisted Moore, laying his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder.
"Hit ain't hanythink o' the kind, hand I won't go, sir," declared Buster in an apologetically defiant tone. "No, sir, Hi won't go."
"You won't, Buster?"
"Wot would that young lady hover at Drury Lane think o' me, hif I left you halone?"
Moore sighed at the thought of her.
"She would n't care, Buster," he murmured.
"Wouldn't she? Then she 'as an 'eart of hice, that's wot she 'as, sir, wid hall the beautiful pomes we 'ave sent 'er."
"But you are getting no wages, Buster," protested Moore.
"Well, sir," the boy answered, "Hi 'as a situation, Hi 'as. That's more 'n you 'as, his n't it?"
His voice died away in a snuffle, and he clutched his master by the arm appealingly.