"No," said Dickie; "but I've got this." He handed the little box across the counter.
"Where'd you get it?"
"I made it."
The pawnbroker laughed again. "Well, well, I'll ask no questions and you'll tell me no lies, eh?"
"I shall certainly tell you no lies," said Dickie, with the dignity of the dream boy who was not a cripple and was heir to a great and gentle name; "will you take it instead of the money?"
The pawnbroker turned the box over in his hands, while kindness and honesty struggled fiercely within him against the habits of a business life. Dickie eyed the china vases and concertinas and teaspoons tied together in fan shape, and waited silently.
"It's worth more than what I lent you," the man said at last with an effort; "and it isn't every one who would own that, mind you."
"I know it isn't," said Dickie; "will you please take it to pay my debt to you, and if it is worth more, accept it as a grateful gift from one who is still gratefully your debtor."
"You'd make your fortune on the halls," said the man, as Beale had said; "the way you talk beats everything. All serene. I'll take the box in full discharge of your debt. But you might as well tell me where you got it."
"I made it," said Dickie, and put his lips together very tightly.