“Right here,” and Aunt Abby pointed to a place on the rug near the head of her bed. It was a narrow bed, which had been brought there for her during her stay.
“Huh! Now you could’a dropped it there?”
“I know,” and Aunt Abby whispered, “Nobody’ll believe me, but I know!”
“You do! Say, you’re some wiz! Spill it to me, there’s a dear!”
Fibsy was, in his way, a psychologist, and he knew by instinct that this old lady would like him better if he retained his ignorant, untutored ways, than if he used the more polished speech, which he had painstakingly acquired for other kinds of occasions.
“I wonder if you’d understand. For a boy, you’re a bright one—”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I am! They don’t make ‘em no brighter ‘n me! Try me, do, Miss Ames! I’m right there with the goods.”
“Well, child, it’s this: I saw a—a vision—”
“Yes’m, I know—I mean I know what visions are, they’re fine, too!” He fairly smacked his lips in gusto, and it encouraged Aunt Abby to proceed.
“Yes, and it was the ghost of—who do you suppose it was?”