“It was you stole the loaf, you little rascal!” said the workman, seeing thief in every line of the boy. “Yes,” answered Tommy boldly, “an’ I don’t see no harm. The baker had lots, and he wasn’t ’ungry! It was Clare made a mull of it! He’s such a duffer you don’t know! He acshally took it back to the brute! He deserved what he got! The loaf was mine. It wasn’t his! _I_ stole it!” “Oh, ho! it wasn’t his! it was yours, was it?--Why do you go about with a chap like this, young gentleman?” said the man, turning to Clare. “I know by your speech you ain’t been brought up alongside o’ sech as him!” “I had to go away, and he came with me,” answered Clare. “You’d better get rid of him. He’ll get you into trouble.” “I can’t get rid of him,” replied Clare. “But I shall teach him not to take what isn’t his. He don’t know better now. He’s been ill-used all his life.” “You don’t seem over well used yourself,” said the man. He saw that Clare’s clothes had been made for a boy in good circumstances, though they had been long worn, and were much begrimed. His face, his tone, his speech convinced him that they had been made for _him_, and that he had had a gentle breeding. “Look you here, young master,” he continued; “you have no right to be in company with that boy. He’ll bring you to grief as sure as I tell you.” “I shall be able to bear it,” answered Clare with a sigh. “He’ll be the loss of your character to you.” “I ain’t got a character to lose,” replied Clare. “I thought I had; but when nobody will believe me, where’s my character then?” “Now you’re wrong there,” returned the man. “I’m not much, I know; but I believe every word you say, and should be very sorry to find myself mistaken.” “Thank you, sir,” said Clare. “May I carry your bag for you?” If Clare had seen what then passed in Tommy’s mind, at the back of those glistening ferret-eyes of his, he would have been almost reconciled to taking the man’s advice, and getting rid of him. Tommy was saying to himself that his pal wasn’t such a duffer after all--he was on the lay for the man’s tools! Tommy never reasoned except in the direction of cunning self-help--of fitting means and intermediate ends to the one main object of eating. It is wonderful what a sharpener of the poor wits hunger is! “I guess I’m the abler-bodied pauper!” answered the man; and picking up the bag he had dropped at his feet while they conversed, he walked away. There are many more generous persons among the poor than among the rich--a fact that might help some to understand how a rich man should find it hard to enter into the kingdom of heaven. It is hard for everybody, but harder for the rich. Men who strive to make money are unconsciously pulling instead of pushing at the heavy gate of the kingdom. “Tommy!” said Clare, in a tone new to himself, for a new sense of moral protection had risen in him, “if ever you steal anything again, either I give you a hiding, or you and I part company.”