"You--I want you!" he called huskily. "Not the other boy! You!"

I obeyed, having a reputation to keep up in the eyes of Doggy Bates;
but my courage was oozing as I walked towards the old man, and I came
to a sudden stop about five yards from him.

"Closer!" he beckoned. "Good boy, don't be afraid. What's your
name, good boy?"

"Harry Brooks, sir."

"Call me 'sir,' do you? Well, and you're right. I could ride in my
coach-and-six if I chose; and some day you may see it. How would you
like to ride in your coach-and-six, Harry Brooks?"

"I should like it finely, sir," said I, humouring him.

"Yes, yes, I'll wager you would. Well, now--come closer. Mum's the
word, eh? I like you, Harry Brooks; and the boys in this town "--he
broke off and cursed horribly--"they're not fit to carry slops to a
bear, not one of 'em. But you're different. And, see here: any time
you're in trouble, just pay a call on me. Understand? Mind you, I
make no promises." Here, to my exceeding fright, he reached out a
hand, and, clutching me by the arm, drew me close, so that his breath
poured hot on my ear, and I sickened at its reek of brandy.
"It's _money_, boy--_money_, I tell you!"

He dropped my arm, and, falling back a pace, looked nervously about
him.