“Yessir, I mean saw. An’ to talk wit’ you onct, makes me feel I want to go to night school, or sumpum—”
“Something.”
“Yessir, something.”
Seated at a table that was properly appointed, but not elaborate enough to embarrass his young guest, Judge Hoyt settled himself comfortably in his chair, and adjusted his napkin, while Fibsy, watching him closely, followed every motion with a like one of his own. He took a sip of water immediately after his model had done so, and replaced the glass with an imitative gesture, extending his stubby little finger in the manner of the other’s carefully manicured digit.
Judge Hoyt noticed all this, but seeing that Fibsy was in earnest and entirely unself-conscious, he ignored it and let the boy have his lessons in etiquette.
“Ain’t it a shame, Judge, that they can’t find the feller,—fel-low, I mean, who moidered Mr. Trowbridge?”
“Oh, didn’t you know that Kane Landon is indicted for the crime?”
“Yep, sure I know that, but he didn’t do it, allee samee.”
“Don’t you think so? Why not?”
“Well, I loined it outen o’ my pus-shy-kollergy book.”