“Did you f-f-fetch a lunch?” says he.
“No,” says I.
“Didn’t think you would,” says he, “so I f-fetched enough for two.”
I looked at the box. Honest, it reminded me more of a piano box than anything else; anyhow, of a good-sized packing-case.
“Is that full?” says I.
“Couldn’t git in another crumb,” says he.
“How long you plannin’ to stay?”
“Home ’fore supper.”
“And that’s just lunch!” says I.
“Nothin’ but a s-snack,” says he. “Didn’t put in a thing but six pieces of apple p-p-pie and eight ham sandriches and a few fried-cakes, and three-four bananas, and a l-little hunk of cake, and some f-f-fried chicken, and a h-hunk of bread in case we didn’t have enough sandriches, and some b-butter—”