"Oh, I'll ask him something. Look here, who was the fellow with you and Vlacho?"
The boy was silent; defiance and fear struggled in the dark eyes.
"You see, he's an obstinate beggar," said Denny, as though he had observed all necessary forms and could now get to business; and he drew the lash of the whip through his fingers. I am afraid Denny was rather looking forward to executing justice with his own hands.
The boy rose again, and stood facing that heartless young ruffian, Denny—it was thus that I thought of Denny at the moment—then once again he sank back into his seat, and covered his face with his hands.
"Well, I wouldn't go out killing if I hadn't more pluck than that," said Denny, scornfully. "You're not fit for the trade, my lad."
The boy had no retort. His face was buried in those slim hands of his. For a moment he was quite still. Then he moved a little; it was a movement that spoke of helpless pain, and I heard something very like a stifled sob.
"Just leave us alone a little, Denny," said I. "He may tell me what he won't tell you."
"Are you going to let him off?" demanded Denny, suspiciously. "You never can be stiff in the back, Charlie."
"I must see if he won't speak to me first," I pleaded, meekly.
"But if he won't?" insisted Denny.