"Every little helps."
With that the youngster was silent and drew himself up with stiff
dignity, offended yet fascinated; unable to tear himself away from
this strange giant who was so insultingly kind under his abuse, who
yet inspired him with such a sense of trust and of hope.
"I want a lawyer," he said impulsively, looking up anxiously into the
deep-lined face inches above him. "I don't know where to find a lawyer
in this horrible city, and I must have one--I can't wait--it may be
too late--I want a lawyer _now_" and once more he was in a fever
of excitement.
"What do you want with a lawyer?" Again the calm, friendly tone
quieted him.
"I want him to draw a will. My brother is--" he caught his breath with
a gasp in a desperate effort for self-control. "They say he's--dying."
He finished the sentence with a quiver in his voice, and the brave
front and the trembling, childish tone went to the man's heart. "I
don't believe it--he can't be dying," the boy talked on, gathering
courage. "But anyway, he wants to make a will, and--and I reckon--it
may be that he--he must."
"I see," the other answered gravely, and the young, torn soul felt
an unreasoning confidence that he had found a friend. "Where is your
brother?"
"He's in the prison hospital there--in that big building," he pointed
down the street.
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