The boy’s eyes grew bigger and bigger.
“Maybe you been a-performin’ in your sleep again, Grover Cleveland.”
“No I ain’t gran’daddy, no I ain’t,” the blue eyes were very earnest. “I done been in bed close up to you all night.”
“Maybe you have, Grover Cleveland, but ’pears like you overslept yourself a spell this morning. There’s the pone and some bacon keeping warm for you by the fire.”
Puzzled that his grandfather didn’t take a more active interest in the calamity that had befallen him, the boy ran half-dressed to the door.
“Gran’daddy! gran’daddy! what you got Bonaparte and Butterfly geared up to the cart for?”
“I been down to Junaluska. And now you eat your breakfast quick, and we’ll go hunt up your half of the Valley of the Mississippi; and you put on them blue-top boots Grover Cleveland; them old shoes lets the water in.”
“Why them boots is done gone!” he shook his grandfather as if to wake him up, “don’t you ’member—oh-ee-ee,” he went diving under the bed and, coming up again with the blue-tops hugged close to his breast and another pair in his hand, stood before his grandfather dumb as to the vocal organs but his eyes questioning wildly.
“Them red-tops is for Jakey.”
“You aim to carry them boots up to him, gran’daddy?”