“Ain’t had much fun since your ma died, have you, Phil?” questioned Teddy sympathetically.
“Not much,” answered the lad, a thin, gray mist clouding his eyes. “No, not much. But, then, I’m not complaining.”
“Your uncle’s a mean old—”
“There, there, Teddy, please don’t say it. He may be all you think he is, but for all the mean things he’s said and done to me, I’ve never given him an impudent word, Teddy. Can you guess why?”
“Cause he’s your uncle, maybe,” grumbled Teddy.
“No, ’cause he’s my mother’s brother—that’s why.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’d feel that way if I’d had a mother.”
“But you did.”
“Nobody ever introduced us, if I did. Guess she didn’t know me. But if your uncle was my uncle do you know what I’d do with him, Phil Forrest?”
“Don’t let’s talk about him. Let’s talk about the circus. It’s more fun,” interrupted Phil, turning to the billboard again and gazing at it with great interest.