“Well, then,” interrupted the child, pouting, “a rich man if you like; I don’t care.”
“Eesa mores-a da bet,” and he smiled approvingly. “And a Sunny-a da paper print under da fote-da-graph some-a ting like-a deeze—A da corner ova-a da dining room—maybees-a da den wud look-a da bet,” he muttered reflectively. “In deeze-a home ova-a a Signor George-a da Golda—house-a dat, eh, a Daize?”
“Is that your name?” she inquired.
“Eesa good-a da name? A Daize.”
“May I stay in here when the photo man comes?”
“Sure-a Daize!”
“Oh, good!” and the child clapped her little hands and laughed gleefully.
Jack looked at her quizzically, and then, seating himself on the stool, took the child between his knees.
“Tell-a me, da Daize, what-a da for youse-a like-a da picture take-a here, eh?”
“Cause!” she answered shyly.