"Heaps of poor boys," she says again. "Hun-dreds! And therefore another little boy, whom I will not name, but who is in this room, ought to be ashamed that he is not thankful for his beer-soup."
My little boy stares at Aunt Anna like the bird fascinated by the snake.
"Such delicious beer-soup!" she says. "I must really ask for another little helping."
Aunt Anna revels in her martyrdom. My little boy stands speechless, with open mouth and round eyes.
I push my chair back and say, with genuine exasperation:
"Now, look here, Aunt Anna, this is really too bad! Here we are, with a whole lot of beer-soup, which we don't care about in the least and which we would be very glad to get rid of, if we only knew someone who would have it. You are the only one that knows of anybody. You know a poor boy who would dance for joy if he got some beer-soup. You know hundreds. But you won't tell us their names or where they live."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"And you yourself sit quite calmly eating two whole helpings, though you know quite well that you're going to have an omelette to follow. That's really very naughty of you, Aunt Anna."
Aunt Anna chokes with annoyance. My little boy locks his teeth with a snap and looks with every mark of disgust at that wicked old woman.
And I turn with calm earnestness to his mother and say: