It was the face of a small boy that looked up at theirs—a face that might have been pretty and even refined, but that it was darkened by evil knowledge from within, and dirt and hard experience from without.
He had a blanket around his shoulders, and had evidently just risen from his bed.
“Come in,” he repeated, “and don’t make no noise. The Old Man’s in there talking to mar,” he continued, pointing to an adjacent room which seemed to be a kitchen, from which the Old Man’s voice came in deprecating accents.
“Let me be,” he added, querulously to Dick Bullen, who had caught him up, blanket and all, and was affecting to toss him into the fire; “let go o’ me, you d—d old fool, d’ye hear?”
Thus adjured, Dick Bullen lowered Johnny to the ground with a smothered laugh, while the men, entering quietly, ranged themselves around a long table of rough boards which occupied the centre of the room.
Johnny then gravely proceeded to a cupboard, and brought out several articles which he deposited on the table.
“‘NOW WADE IN, AND DON’T BE AFEARED.’”
“Thar’s whisky and crackers, and red herons and cheese.” He took a bite of the latter on his way to the table. “And sugar.” He scooped up a mouthful en route with a small and very dirty hand. “And terbacker. Thar’s dried appils too on the shelf, but I don’t admire ’em. Appils is swellin’. Thar,” he continued; “now wade in, and don’t be afeared. I don’t mind the old woman. She don’t b’long to me. S’long.”
He had stepped to the threshold of a small room, scarcely larger than a closet, partitioned off from the main apartment, and holding in its dim recess a small bed.