“Ye wouldn’t either, I guess. Ain’t no blood in ’em, I’m thinkin’. But he ain’t drippin’ anything, is he? He’s got insides, ain’t he? There’d be somethin’ to drip if he was gettin’ cut, wouldn’t they?”
“Uh-huh. But ain’t it hurtin’ ’im at all, Josh?”
“Course not, rummy! There he goes off on the ground. Now watch while I turn ’im over, kid. You won’t see a ole cut or anything.”
And when Joshua’s gently prodding stick had laid the long-suffering mollusk on its back its belly showed none the worse for the experience.
“Josh, how’d he stay on?”
“I can’t tell ye that. But I’ll know some day. Then come ’round and ast me.”
“And why’n’t it cut ’im?”
“Can’t tell that either—but sometime I will.”
“How ye gonta ever tell, Josh?”
“I don’t know. There’s a lotta things I gotta find out, kid. There’s books an’ things that’ll tell ye all about things like that. I’m gonta get the names of ’em sometime. Now what’ll we do till ole Slinky Dawson comes along with Madmallet’s letter to the folks?”