"Who is sick?"
"Me dad, mister."
"Your dad? Your father?"
"Yes, mister; been sick going on two months now, and ain't no better."
Richard looked at the boy sharply. He had been deceived so many times
that he was half inclined to discredit the urchin's story.
"It's the truth, mister," went on the boy, seeing the look of distrust.
"I ain't tellin' no lies, so help--"
"What's your name?"
"Pep, sir."
"Pep what?"
The urchin held down his head.
"I ain't got no other name!" he answered hesitatingly.
"Oh, you must have!" exclaimed Richard. "Come, out with it."
But the little ragged figure only began to cry again, harder than ever.
"Come, tell me; I won't have you arrested," urged Richard.
"Oh, thank you, mister! It would kill dad to know I'd been stealin'.
I told him I made the money sellin' papers."
"That was a lie," said Richard sternly.
"I know it, mister, but I couldn't help it. It was better than tellin'
him I'd been stealin'. I wouldn't have taken yer money only I was
afraid he'd die if he didn't have de doctor and de medicine, so help--"
"There, don't swear," interrupted Richard. "If you were so hard up you
should have asked me for help. I would have given you something."
"I would have asked, only most of de people laughs at me and tells me
to clear out, and they think I'm lyin' when I say dad's sick, and say
they guess he must drink de money up, which is a lie itself, 'cause
dad don't drink a drop; he's got pneumony, so de doctor says, and he's
coughin' all de time.
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