"
"What made you do that, you sinner?"
"A boy told me. You ought to have heard vem sneeze, and ven papa
fumped me."
"Much?"
The child eyed him distrustfully,
"What for do you want to know?"
"Oh, because--you see, I used to get thumped, myself, sometimes."
"Yes, he fumped awful, and ven he stopped and sneezed, and I sneezed,
too, and we all sneezed and had to stop."
"And then did you turn the other also?"
"No; I hadn't begun yet. I only sneezed a great deal, and papa said
somefing about rooty ceilings."
In vain the stranger pondered over the last remark. He was unable to
discover its application, and accordingly he passed to a more
obvious question.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"What's yours?"
"Gifford Barrett."
"Mine is McAlister Holden."
"Um-m. I think I haven't met you before."
"You could if you'd wanted to, I live in ve brown house, and I've seen
you lots of times. Once you 'most stepped on me."
"Did I? How did that happen?"
"You were finking of fings and got in my way."
"Was that it?"
"Vat's what my papa says, when I do it. He says I ought to look where I
am going." The boy's tone was severe.
There was a pause, while Mac swung his hoop against a post. On the
rebound, it struck the stranger a sharp blow just under and back of the
knees. He turned and glared at the child.
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