“You pause for a reply,” said Pemberton, treating the question as a joke,

yet wondering too and greatly struck with his mate’s intense if imperfect

vision. “I haven’t the least idea.”

“And what good does it do? Haven’t I seen the way people treat them—the

‘nice’ people, the ones they want to know? They’ll take anything from

them—they’ll lie down and be trampled on. The nice ones hate that—they

just sicken them. You’re the only really nice person we know.”

“Are you sure? They don’t lie down for me!”

“Well, you shan’t lie down for them. You’ve got to go—that’s what you’ve

got to do,” said Morgan.

“And what will become of you?”

“Oh I’m growing up. I shall get off before long. I’ll see you later.”

“You had better let me finish you,” Pemberton urged, lending himself to

the child’s strange superiority.

Morgan stopped in their walk, looking up at him. He had to look up much

less than a couple of years before—he had grown, in his loose leanness,

so long and high. “Finish me?” he echoed.

“There are such a lot of jolly things we can do together yet. I want to

turn you out—I want you to do me credit.”

Morgan continued to look at him. “To give you credit—do you mean?”

“My dear fellow, you’re too clever to live.”

“That’s just what I’m afraid you think. No, no; it isn’t fair—I can’t

endure it. We’ll separate next week. The sooner it’s over the sooner to

sleep.”

“If I hear of anything—any other chance—I promise to go,” Pemberton said.

Morgan consented to consider this. “But you’ll be honest,” he demanded;

“you won’t pretend you haven’t heard?”

“I’m much more likely to pretend I have.”

“But what can you hear of, this way, stuck in a hole with us? You ought

to be on the spot, to go to England—you ought to go to America.”

“One would think you were _my_ tutor!” said Pemberton.

Morgan walked on and after a little had begun again: “Well, now that you

know I know and that we look at the facts and keep nothing back—it’s much

more comfortable, isn’t it?”

“My dear boy, it’s so amusing, so interesting, that it will surely be

quite impossible for me to forego such hours as these.”

This made Morgan stop once more. “You _do_ keep something back. Oh

you’re not straight—_I_ am!”

“How am I not straight?”

“Oh you’ve got your idea!”

“My idea?”

“Why that I probably shan’t make old—make older—bones, and that you can

stick it out till I’m removed.”

“You _are_ too clever to live!” Pemberton repeated.

“I call it a mean idea,” Morgan pursued. “But I shall punish you by the

way I hang on.”

“Look out or I’ll poison you!” Pemberton laughed.

“I’m stronger and better every year. Haven’t you noticed that there

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