“Never. You may stake your life on that.”
“Wal, I don’t care what happens to him anyway. He’s a bad egg—a rotten bad egg clean through. And I’m done with him from now right on. I’m goin’ to take that printin’ devil’s job and act on the square.”
“That’s right, Scotty. And we’ll all help you to get clear of bad companions and bad influences. So it’s all right for you to give me that name.”
“An’ she’ll be pleased too, won’t she, that Holden young lady?”
“She’ll be always grateful to you for saving Buell Hampton.”
“That’s ‘nuff for me. The leader o’ that gang is—”
Scotty paused a moment; Roderick waited, silent and still.
“Bud Bledsoe,” whispered the lad. “Now I’ve stopped hatin’ you, I’ve sort o’ turned to hatin’ him and all his kind. But you’ll not give me away, Warfield? I wants ter hold down that printin’ job—that editor feller will make a man of me, that’s just how I feel.”
“And just as we all feel,” said Roderick. “Now, Scotty, you must lie down. Let me fix your pillow for you. You’ve got some fever yet, I can see. You must rest, old fellow. You look tired.”
“Yes; I’m doggoned tired,” murmured the lad wearily, as he sank back on the pillow and closed his eyes.