A lean, wet-haired boy, plodding past him, glanced up with large, drowsy-lidded eyes, and slid under his broad umbrella, making no comment. Father Andrew chuckled and sighed. Giving and taking were a simple incident, if giving were merely to carry an umbrella for two, taking merely to step under it, and charity were not charity but companionship.
"Where are you going?"
"I guess I'll go with you," after hesitating.
"But where did you come from?"
"Lappo's."
"And where's Lappo?"
"I don' know. He's dead."
Father Andrew chuckled and sighed again. Very likely he could not have decided himself, from any earthly information, where Lappo was. "Was it Lappo the fruit-seller? Yes, yes. And what is your name?"
"Gard Windham."
"Good—Well, well! A—mm—And Lappo wasn't your father? Who was?"