He considered this in silence, chewing slowly on a vast mouthful of bread. "Anyhow, we leave the little children with Touclé, if she's there," (he stopped here an instant to inspect Mr. Welles to make sure he was not laughing because he had called Elly and Mark the "little children." But Mr. Welles was not laughing at him. He was listening, really listening, the way grown-ups almost never did, to hear what you had to say. He did like Mr. Welles. He went on,) "or if Touclé's off somewheres in the woods herself, we leave them down at the Powers' to play with Addie and Ralph, and we light out for the woods, Mother and I. The snarleder up I feel, the further we go. We don't fish or anything. Just leg it, till I feel better. Then we make a fire and eat."
He swallowed visibly a huge lump of unchewed bread, and said, uncorking a thermos bottle, "I asked Mother to put up some hot coffee."
Mr. Welles seemed surprised. "Why, do you drink coffee?"
"Oh no, none of us kids ever take it. But I thought you'd like some. Grown-up folks mostly do, when they eat out-of-doors."
Mr. Welles took the cup of steaming coffee, ready sugared and creamed, without even saying thank you, but in a minute, as they began their second round of sandwiches, filled this time with cold ham from home, he said, "You've got quite a way of looking out for folks, haven't you?
"I like to," said Paul.
"I always liked to," said Mr. Welles.
"I guess you've done quite a lot of it," conjectured the little boy.
"Quite a lot," said the old man, thoughtfully.
Paul never liked to be left behind and now spoke out, "Well, I expect I'll do a good deal, too."