"Stow it, I say!" said Beale, more fiercely still. "I see what you're after; you want us to part company, that's what you want. Well, go. Go back to yer old Talbots and be the nice lady's little boy with velvet kicksies and a clean anky once a week. That's what you do." Dickie looked forlornly out over the river. "I can't 'elp what I dreams, can I?" he said. "In the dream I'd got lots of things. Uncles and aunts an' a little brother. I never seen him though. An' a farver and muvver an' all. It's different 'ere. I ain't got nobody but you 'ere--farver." "Well, then," said Beale more gently, "what do you go settin' of yourself up agin me for?" "I ain't," said Dickie. "I thought you liked me to tell you everythink." Silence. Dickie could not help noticing the dirty shirt, the dirty face, the three days' beard, the filthy clothes of his friend, and he thought of his other friend, Sebastian of the Docks. He saw the pale blue reproachful eyes of Beale looking out of that dirty face, and he spoke aloud, quite without meaning to. "All that don't make no difference," he said. "Eh?" said Beale with miserable, angry eyes. "Look 'ere," said Dickie desperately. "I'm a-goin' to show you. This 'ere's my Tinkler, what I told you about, what pawns for a bob. I wouldn't show it to no one but you, swelp me, I wouldn't." He held the rattle out. Beale took it. "It's a fancy bit, I will say," he owned. "Look 'ere," said Dickie, "what I mean to say----" He stopped. What was the use of telling Beale that he had come back out of the dream just for _his_ sake? Beale who did not believe in the dream--did not understand it--hated it? "Don't you go turning agin me," he said; "whether I dream or not, you and me'll stand together. I'm not goin' to do things wot's wrong--low, dirty tricks--so I ain't. But I knows we can get on without that. What would you _like_ to do for your living if you could choose?" "I warn't never put to no trade," said Beale, "'cept being 'andy with a 'orse. I was a wagoner's mate when I was a boy. I likes a 'orse. Or a dawg," he added. "I ain't no good wiv me 'ands--not at working, you know--not to say working." Dickie suppressed a wild notion he had had of getting into that dream again, learning some useful trade there, waking up and teaching it to Mr. Beale. "Ain't there _nothing_ else you'd like to do?" he asked. "I don't know as there is," said Mr. Beale drearily; "without it was pigeons." Then Dickie wondered whether things that you learned in dreams would "_stay_ learned." Things you learned to do with your hands. The Greek and the Latin "stayed learned" right enough and sang in his brain encouragingly.