“Upon my soul, Polly,” exclaimed Barbox Brothers, very much at a loss, “I have not the slightest idea!”
“Then I tell you what,” said Polly. “Have you got any cards at your house?”
“Plenty,” said Barbox Brothers in a boastful vein.
“Very well. Then I’ll build houses, and you shall look at me. You mustn’t blow, you know.”
“Oh no,” said Barbox Brothers. “No, no, no. No blowing. Blowing’s not fair.”
He flattered himself that he had said this pretty well for an idiotic monster; but the child, instantly perceiving the awkwardness of his attempt to adapt himself to her level, utterly destroyed his hopeful opinion of himself by saying compassionately: “What a funny man you are!”
Feeling, after this melancholy failure, as if he every minute grew bigger and heavier in person, and weaker in mind, Barbox gave himself up for a bad job. No giant ever submitted more meekly to be led in triumph by all-conquering Jack than he to be bound in slavery to Polly.
“Do you know any stories?” she asked him.
He was reduced to the humiliating confession: “No.”
“What a dunce you must be, mustn’t you?” said Polly.