“You’re a bright lad, Fibsy,” she said; “by the way, what’s your real name—I forget.”
“Terence, ma’am; Terence McGuire. I wish’t I was old enough to be called McGuire! I’d like that.”
“I’ll call you that, if you wish. You’re old for your age, I’m sure. How old are you?”
“Goin’ on about fifteen or sixteen—I think. I sort’a forget.”
“Nonsense! You can’t forget your age! Why do they call you Fibsy?”
“‘Cause I’m a born liar—’scuse me—a congenital prevaricator, I meant to say. You see, ma’am, it’s necessary in my business not always to employ the plain unvarnished. But don’t be alarmed, ma’am; when I take a fancy to anybuddy, as I have to you, ma’am, I don’t never lie to ‘em. Not that I s’pose you’d care, eh, ma’am?”
Aunt Abby laughed. “You are a queer lad! Why, I’m not sure I’d care, if it didn’t affect me in any way. I’m not responsible for your truthfulness—though I don’t mind advising you that you ought to be a truthful boy.”
“Land, ma’am! Don’t you s’pose I know that? But, honest now, are you always just exactly, abserlutely truthful, yourself?”
“Certainly I am! What do you mean by speaking to me like that?”
“Well, don’t you ever touch up a yarn a little jest sort’a to make it more interestin’ like? Most ladies do—that is, most ladies of intelligence and brains—which you sure have got in plenty!”