The child checked himself, catching sight of Caleb. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “I didn’t see there was anyone here besides Mr. Caine. Mr. Caine,” he explained, condescendingly, “is a friend of mine.”
“Go on with your gabfest together, then,” vouchsafed Caleb, with an effort at unbending. “Don’t mind me.”
The boy’s brows contracted at sound of the false note in Caleb’s voice. He looked at the Fighter long and with frank criticism. Caleb bore the scrutiny with visible discomfort. He was not fond of children and did not understand them. Having had no childhood himself he could nowhere meet them on equal terms. Yet, as this slender, Eton-suited youngster was apparently a relative of Letty’s and a member of the same household, he sought to improve the acquaintance.
“I know a little rat about your age,” he began, with elephantine geniality, “His name’s Billy Shevlin. Smart boy, too. Sharp as a whip. Ever meet him?”
“No, sir,” replied Clive, “I think not.”
“No? You wouldn’t be likely to, I s’pose. While you’re home, evenin’s, learnin’ hymns, he’s out learnin’ life. Spends most of his evenin’s round at the fire-house. Why, that kid knows the name of each engine in town the minute he hears ’em whistle.”
Clive’s eyes grew wistful with envy; yet abated none of the unconscious criticism wherewith they were still scrutinizing the Fighter. His lack of response confused Caleb; who started off on a new tack.
“Yes, Billy’s a great boy. He used to have a lot of cunnin’ tricks, too, when he was little. He’s outgrowin’ ’em now. Used to tiptoe up behind me an’ put both his dirty little hands over my eyes an’ say: ‘Guess who’s here?’ An’ then I’d guess ‘General Grant’ an’ ‘Abe Lincoln’ and ‘Queen Victoria’ an’ ‘Tom Platt’ an’ a lot of other big guns; till all of a sudden I’d guess ‘Billy Shevlin!’ An’ he’d squeal out ‘Yes!’ Not much sense in it. But kind of cute for such a little feller. I remember some folks were callin’ there one day an’ I wanted him to play that game, to show off before ’em. But he was kind of bashful and wouldn’t. An’ that made me mad; so I cuffed him over the head. An’ since then, somehow, he’s never played it any more.”
“I don’t wonder!” gasped Clive. “I—excuse me, sir,” he caught himself up, “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Go ahead!” laughed Caleb, “That ain’t rude. It’s bein’ honest. Don’t let ’em make a Miss Nancy of you by teachin’ you to ’pologize an’ say ‘please,’ an’ ‘Sir’ an’ all those folderols.”