For a
time his replies to her questions were indistinct, but at last he became
quieter and she could understand.
He was a mite of a boy, nothing but skin-covered bones, his burned,
freckled face in a mortar of tears and dust, his clothing unspeakably
dirty, one great toe in a festering mass from a broken nail, and sores
all over the visible portions of the small body.
"You won't let the mean old thing make his dog get me!" he wailed.
"Indeed no," said Elnora, holding him closely.
"You wouldn't set a dog on a boy for just taking a few old apples when
you fed 'em to pigs with a shovel every day, would you?"
"No, I would not," said Elnora hotly.
"You'd give a boy all the apples he wanted, if he hadn't any breakfast,
and was so hungry he was all twisty inside, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, I would," said Elnora.
"If you had anything to eat you would give me something right now,
wouldn't you?"
"Yes," said Elnora. "There's nothing but just stones in the package. But
my dinner is in that case. I'll gladly divide."
She opened the box. The famished child gave a little cry and reached
both hands. Elnora caught them back.
"Did you have any supper?"
"No."
"Any dinner yesterday?"
"An apple and some grapes I stole."
"Whose boy are you?"
"Old Tom Billings's."
"Why doesn't your father get you something to eat?"
"He does most days, but he's drunk now."
"Hush, you must not!" said Elnora. "He's your father!"
"He's spent all the money to get drunk, too," said the boy, "and Jimmy
and Belle are both crying for breakfast.
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