“What’s your name?”
“My name’s George. My name’s George, the same as my papa,” he replied somewhat challengingly.
“Don’t you live just across the street?” she asked.
“Yes, I do.” He turned, pointing to the “George M. Sullender residence”; and Bella thought she detected a note of inherited pride in his tone as he added, “That’s where I live!”
“But, George, you don’t mean,” she insisted curiously;—“you don’t mean that your mother told you there are nice worms? Surely not!”
“My mother did,” he asserted, and then with a little caution, modified the assertion. “My mother just the same as did.”
“How was that?”
And his reply, so unexpected by his questioner, sent a thrill of coming triumph through her. “My mother called my father a worm.”
“What!”
“She did,” said George. “She called him a worm over and over——”