give you that. I don't believe you."

"You got to believe me," said Dickie firmly. "I never told you a lie,
did I?"

"Come to think of it, I don't know as you ever did," Beale admitted.

"Well," said Dickie, "they was give me--see?"

"We'll never change 'em, though," said Beale despondently. "We'd get
lagged for a cert. They'd say we pinched 'em."

"No, they won't. 'Cause I've got a friend as'll change 'em for me, and
then we'll 'ave new clobber and some more furniture, and a carpet and a
crockery basin to wash our hands and faces in 'stead of that old tin
thing. And a bath we'll 'ave. And you shall buy some more pups. And I'll
get some proper carving tools. And our fortune's made. See?"

"You nipper," said Beale, slowly and fondly, "the best day's work ever I
done was when I took up with you. You're straight, you are--one of the
best. Many's the boy would 'ave done a bunk and took the shiners along
with him. But you stuck to old Beale, and he'll stick to you."

"That's all right," said Dickie, beginning to put the bright coins back
into the bag.

"But it ain't all right," Beale insisted stubbornly; "it ain't no good.
I must 'ave it all out, or bust. I didn't never take you along of me
'cause I fancied you like what I said. I was just a-looking out for a
nipper to shove through windows--see?--along of that redheaded chap what
you never set eyes on."

"I've known that a long time," said Dickie, gravely watching the candle
flicker on the bare mantel-shelf.

"I didn't mean no good to you, not at first I didn't," said Beale, "when
you wrote on the sole of my boot. I'd bought that bit of paper and
pencil a-purpose. There!"

"You ain't done me no 'arm, anyway," said Dickie.

"No--I know I ain't. 'Cause why? 'Cause I took to you the very first
day. I allus been kind to you--you can't say I ain't." Mr. Beale was
confused by the two desires which make it difficult to confess anything
truthfully--the desire to tell the worst of oneself and the desire to do
full justice to oneself at the same time. It is so very hard not to
blacken the blackness, or whiten the whiteness, when one comes to trying
to tell the truth about oneself. "But I been a beast all the same," said
Mr. Beale helplessly.

"Oh, stow it!" Dickie said; "now you've told me, it's all square."

"You won't keep a down on me for it?"

"Now, should I?" said Dickie, exasperated and very sleepy. "Now all is
open as the day and we can pursue our career as