He'll stand quiet enough. Only too glad of the chance
to stand. I keep him moving, you know."
"Don't he ever get jerking at the rein, and break his bridle?"
"If he did he wouldn't run away. He'd be too ashamed of himself for
what he'd done."
"Then step inside, William," said Mr. Bates once more.
He ushered Dale into a bare, sad-looking room; and the whole cottage
smelled of nakedness, famine, misery.
"Now, my dear old friend," said Dale cheerily, "what's all this
whispering that reaches my ears _in re_ you thinking of changing your
quarters and leaving us?"
"It's the truth, William. I can't afford these premises any longer."
"Oh, come, we can't have that. We haven't so many friends that we can
put up with losing the one we value most of all."
Then he told Mr. Bates what he had done at Manninglea.
The old man frowned, flushed, and began to tremble.
"You shouldn't 'a' done that, William. It was a liberty. I must write
and say my notice holds good."
Then there was a brief but most painful conversation, Dale nearly
shedding tears while he pleaded to be allowed on this one occasion to
act as banker, and Bates resolutely refusing help, refusing even to
admit how much help was needed.
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