“Was it a boy or a girl?”
The old man deliberated within himself. “Seem like it mus' been a boy.”
“Did it die?” Jane asked, softly.
“I reckon it mus' be dead by now,” he returned, musingly. “Good many of 'em dead: what I KNOWS is dead. Yes'm, I reckon so.”
“How old were you when you were married?” William asked, with a manner of peculiar earnestness;—it was the manner of one who addresses a colleague.
“Me? Well, suh, dat 'pen's.” He seemed to search his memory. “I rickalect I 'uz ma'ied once in Looavle,” he said.
Jane's interest still followed the first child. “Was that where it was born, Mr. Genesis?” she asked.
He looked puzzled, and paused in his whittling to rub his deeply corrugated forehead. “Well, suh, mus' been some bawn in Looavle. Genesis,” he called to his industrious son, “whaih 'uz YOU bawn?”
“Right 'n 'is town,” laughed Genesis. “You fergit a good deal, pappy, but I notice you don' fergit come to meals!”
The old man grunted, resuming his whittling busily. “Hain' much use,” he complained. “Cain' eat nuff'm 'lessen it all gruelly. Man cain' eat nuff'm 'lessen he got teef. Genesis, di'n' I hyuh you tellin' dis white gemmun take caih his teef—not bite on no i'on?”