Page:The little blue devil (IA littlebluedevil00mackiala).pdf/37

“Do you call them cleaned?”

“No, they aren’t. I’ll clean them, I won’t be long.”

He swayed on his feet.

“What’s the matter?” said Robertson quickly.

“It’s all right.”

Tony’s eyes closed and half opened again, showing only the whites. He put out a hand to feel for the wall, and Robertson steadied him with an arm round his shoulders.

“What’s up? Are you ill? And—good heavens, you’re an English boy———!”

“Give me the boots.”

“Oh, damn the boots! I’ll wear another pair. Sit down a bit. What’s wrong?”

“I’m—just—tired,” said Tony, and his head fell forward. Robertson stared at him, dismayed.

“I’m—sorry I rowed you,” he said.

“That’s all right,” said Tony, his voice thick with sleep; “the boots were filthy. Give them to me and I’ll———”

“Oh, rot! Stay where you are. Isn’t that chair comfortable? And tell me what under the sun you’re doing here. I thought you were a native at first.”

“Yes, they dress me like ’em,” Tony answered, sitting up and trying to shake off the creeping sleep that was like unconsciousness. “I came here because I had no money and nowhere else to go. . . . I must go now. There are all those other boots to put back.”

“But look here—you seem about done. I’ll make that all right. And surely there are plenty of them to—How did you get into this state?”

“I’ve got to do it.” Sleep was clutching him again.

“You need a day off, kid.”

Tony laughed, one small, short bark.

“Well—could you do as a guide? . . . h’m . . . I need a guide. Would they let you take me to—to—the