“What!”
“And if he’s a worm,” George went on, stoutly, “well, I guess he’s nice, isn’t he? So there got to be plenty nice worms if he’s one.”
“George!”
“She calls him a worm most every little while, these days,” said George, expanding, and he added, in cold blood, “I like him a great deal better than what I do her.”
“You do?”
“She hit him this morning,” George thought fit to mention.
“What?”
“With a cloe’s-brush,” he said, dropping into detail. “She hit him on the back of the head with the wooden part of it and he said, ‘Ooh’!”
“But she was just in fun, of course!”
“No, she wasn’t; she was mad and said she was goin’ to take me with her and go back to my grampaw’s. I won’t go with her. She’s mad all the time, these days.”