Part 18 (1/2)

”Aw, but you don't mind giving me things you've stole. I'm different, am I? I'm not as good as she is, am I? Well, say, lemme tell you one thing: Ruby Noakes ain't going to hook up with a sneak thief.”

”Ernie,” said d.i.c.k, going very white and speaking very slowly, ”you sometimes make me wish you'd 'a' died that time.”

”I wish I had! Then they'd 'a' hung you.”

”I was only nine,” murmured d.i.c.k, trying to put his arm around his brother, only to have it struck away with violence.

”And I was only four,” scoffed the other. ”Say, let's see that ring.”

d.i.c.k produced the sapphire. It was most unusual in him to carry the smallest part of his gains on his person. The circ.u.mstance struck Ernie at once.

”So you _were_ going to give it to her,” snapped he.

”She wouldn't take it if I were fool enough to offer it,” said d.i.c.k quietly, dropping the ring into his brother's hand. It immediately found a new resting place in the latter's pocket.

”Maybe the other one will take it from me,” he grinned.

”You'd better not try it, Braddock would kick you to death.”

”Everybody wants to kick me,” whined the other, taking a new turn.

”But, say, he didn't offer to kick me last night when I told him she'd been out walking with that guy. I seen 'em--I seen 'em sneaking in. I told Brad. I bet he raised thunder with 'em.”

d.i.c.k was looking out past the stand in the direction of the big tents.

”I'm not so sure,” he said dryly. ”I see Brad and Christine and the guy you mean talking over there by the entrance. They seem to be in a specially good humor.”

Ernie sprang forward, his eyes dilated. He stared for a full minute without blinking. Then his grip on d.i.c.k's arm suddenly relaxed.

”Oh, G.o.d, how I wish I was straight and handsome like him!” he cried brokenly.

d.i.c.k did not look down, but he knew that the tears were standing in the boy's eyes.

”Don't think about it, Ernie,” he began.

Ernie shook off his hand and angrily rubbed his eyes with his bony knuckles. He sobbed twice, and then burst forth in a shrill tirade of abuse. Quivering with ungovernable rage, he called d.i.c.k every vile name he could lay his proficient tongue to.

Poor d.i.c.k offered up no word of protest, no sign of resentment. When Ernie stopped for sheer exhaustion, not only of his lung power but in the matter of epithets, the tall martyr took his hands out of his pockets, stretched himself lazily, and announced, as if it were expected of him as a duty:

”Well, the crowd is beginning to gather at the ticket-wagon. I guess I'd better be strolling among 'em, Ernie. So long.”

Ernie looked up eagerly, his mood changing like a flash.

”Good luck, d.i.c.k,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

CHAPTER VIII

AN INVITATION TO SUPPER

That same night Artful d.i.c.k Cronk had a long conversation with Thomas Braddock. David was the princ.i.p.al subject of discussion. The airy scalawag was not long in getting to the bottom of the fugitive's history, so far as it could be obtained from the rather disconnected utterances of the convivial Thomas. They had come upon each other in a bar-room, but d.i.c.k had succeeded in getting the showman away from the place before he reached the maudlin stage. The day's business had been good. Braddock was cheerful, almost optimistic in consequence. He vociferously thanked his lucky sun, not his stars. Convinced that this was an uncommonly clever bit of paraphrasing, he repeated it at least a dozen times with great unction, always appending a careful explanation so that d.i.c.k would be sure to catch the point--or, you might say, the twist.