“Not wery,” the boy said nervously.
He had given Routledge a start for a moment. It was not past the White Mustache to have used a lad of this size, but, once used, the lad would never have spoken of “woices.” Besides, he had slept on the stairs before. Johnny was looking about the walls with covert appreciation. Guns, saddles, and soldier-pictures appealed to him. They were proper man-things.
“How long have you been in Bookstalls, and around here?”
“Allus.”
“But haven’t you any place to sleep?”
“Lots.” It wasn’t said with humorous intent. Johnny Brodie was struggling with his shoes.
Routledge regarded him with joy.
“Lor-gordy,” muttered Johnny, in an awed voice. “Wishermay die if you ain’t tipped over a bank in me boots!... Mine?”
Routledge nodded.
“Well, I’m chivvied! I ’ont be safe nowheres wit all this.”