"Mebbe," he sourly conceded.
An awkward silence fell over the two new friends.
"Do you want to see my cut?" the girl finally asked him. This was the supreme mark of her good will.
He admired it as he ought. He was on the point of exhibiting to her his double-jointed thumbs, an exhibition for which of old he had invariably demanded twenty pins, when he remembered himself, and strove desperately to rise above any such ingratiating advances—humbled, broken, and desolate as he was. He asked neither the pity nor the friendship of women folks. And he threw a vindictive pebble or two at Plato, each missile smiting so soundly on his ribs that Annie Eliza was moved to ejaculate an almost tearful "Oh!"
"The poor thing!" she murmured, forgetfully.
"He ain't so poor!" maintained Lonely. "That's his way—he's one of the bony kind!"
"Oh, I see!" said Annie Eliza. A little sigh of sympathy escaped her, however, as she looked at Plato still again.
