“Say, wese got tru wid dis story, an’ Miss Constance says she’ll read me anudder, but dey’ll set de goime up on her, sure, she bein’ a goil; so will youse buy de real t’ing?”

“That I will.”

“Dat’s hunky.”  Then he appealed to Constance.  “Say, will youse pay for it?” he requested.

“And why should she?” inquired Dr. Armstrong.

“‘Cause she’s got de dough, an Ise heard de nurse loidies talkin’ ’bout youse, an’ dey said dat youse wuz poor.”

It was the doctor’s turn to colour, and flush he did.

“Swot and I will both be very grateful, Dr. Armstrong, if you will get us another of the Old Sleuth books,” spoke up Miss Durant, hastily.

“Won’t youse guv ’im de price?” reiterated the urchin.

“Then we’ll expect it to-morrow morning,” went on the girl; and for the first time in days she held out her hand to Dr. Armstrong, “And thank you in advance for your kindness.  Good-morning.”

“Rats!” she heard, as she walked away.  “I didn’t tink she’d do de grand sneak like dat, doc, jus’ ’cause I tried to touch her for de cash.”

Constance slowed one step, then resumed her former pace.  “He surely—­Of course he’ll understand why I hurried away,” she murmured.

Blind as he might be, Dr. Armstrong was not blind to the geniality of Miss Durant’s greeting the next morning, or the warmth of her thanks for the cheap-looking dime novel.  She chatted pleasantly with him some moments before beginning on the new tale; and even when she at last opened the book, there was a subtle difference in the way she did it that made it include instead of exclude him from a share in the reading.  And this was equally true of the succeeding days.

The new doings of Old Sleuth did not achieve the success that the previous ones had.  The invalid suddenly developed both restlessness and inattention, with such a tendency to frequent interruptions as to make reading well-nigh impossible.

“Really, Swot,” Constance was driven to threaten one morning, when he had broken in on the narrative for the seventh time with questions which proved that he was giving no heed to the book, “unless you lie quieter, and don’t interrupt so often, I shall not go on reading.”

“Dat goes,” acceded the little fellow; yet before she had so much as finished a page he asked, “Say, did youse ever play craps?”

“No,” she answered, with a touch of severity.

“It’s a jim dandy goime, Ise tells youse.  Like me to learn youse?”

“No,” replied the girl, as she closed the book.

“Goils never oin’t no good,” remarked Swot, discontentedly.

Really irritated, Miss Durant rose and adjusted her boa.  “Swot,” she said, “you are the most ungrateful boy I ever knew, and I’m not merely not going to read any more to-day, but I have a good mind not to come to-morrow, just to punish you.”

“Ah, chase youseself!” was the response.  “Youse can’t pass dat gold brick on me, well, I guess!”