“Yes–what?” sharply asked the physician. “Was it, I say, an accident, or was the man assassinated? Be quick, now!”
“Yesir!” instantly screamed Charley, thinking the doctor was now reproving him for speaking slowly.
“Well, you are scared out of your seven senses, you wretched dunce!” retorted the doctor, out of temper; and, shaking the lad, he said, “See if you can tell me now who it is that’s killed.” 28
“It’s our Tom!”
“And how do I know who your Tom is?” roared the physician. “There’s my Tom;” and he pointed to a monstrous gray cat that sat on an oak chest watching the boy with green-glaring eyes; “and if he should mistake you for a thieving gopher some fine morning, and eat you up alive, small loss would it be to the world, I’m thinking!”
“He’s my brother!” timidly interposed Charley, keeping to the question.
“Your brother! Well, old hunter, what do you say to that?” said the doctor, stroking his disagreeable pet: “that dirty-faced, uncombed, ill-dressed ignoramus of a boy claims you for a relative. Do you realize the honor, eh?”
“I mean that our Tom is my brother,” explained Charley, bursting into tears.
The doctor, softened by his distress, asked more gently,–
“But hasn’t your Tom any other name?”