Then his grip on Dick's arm suddenly relaxed.
"Oh, God, how I wish I was straight and handsome like him!" he cried
brokenly.
Dick 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 Dick every vile
name he could lay his proficient tongue to.
Poor Dick 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, Dick," he said, his eyes sparkling.
CHAPTER VIII
AN INVITATION TO SUPPER
That same night Artful Dick Cronk had a long conversation with Thomas
Braddock.
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