"No."

"Cross your heart--hope to die, you ain't?"

"Across my heart and hope to die, I'm not--and there's my hand on it,
Spike."

"What?" exclaimed the boy, his eyes suspiciously bright, "d' you mean
you will shake--after--after what I--"

"There's my hand, Spike!" So their hands met and gripped, the boy's hot
and eagerly tremulous, the man's cool and steady and strong; then of a
sudden Spike choked and turning his back brushed away his tears with his
cap. Also at this moment, with a soft and discreet knock, Mr. Brimberly
opened the door and bowed himself into the room; his attitude was
deferential as always, his smile as respectful, but, beholding Spike,
his round eyes grew rounder and his whiskers slightly bristly.

"Ah, Brimberly," nodded his master, "you are not in bed yet--good!"

"No, sir," answered Mr. Brimberly, "I'm not in bed yet, sir, but when
you rang I was in the very hact, sir--"

"First of all," said Young R., selecting a cigar, "let me introduce you
to--er--my friend, Spike!"

Hereupon Mr. Brimberly rolled his eyes in Spike's direction, glanced him
over, touched either whisker, and bowed--and lo! those fleecy whiskers
were now eloquent of pompous dignity, beholding which Spike shuffled his
feet, averted his eyes, and twisted his cap into a very tight ball