“Well, really, Benny, I—er—” hesitated the man.
“Well, I don’t believe she will,” repeated Benny. “I hope she won’t, anyhow. Poorhouses ain’t very nice, are they?”
“I—I don’t think I know very much about them, Benny.”
“Well, I don’t believe they are, from what Aunt Jane says. And if they ain’t, I don’t want Aunt Maggie ter go. She hadn’t ought ter have anythin’—but Heaven—after Grandpa Duff. Do you know Grandpa Duff?”
“No, my b-boy.” Mr. Smith was choking over a cough.
“He’s sick. He’s got a chronic grouch, ma says. Do you know what that is?”
“I—I have heard of them.”
“What are they? Anything like chronic rheumatism? I know what chronic means. It means it keeps goin’ without stoppin’—the rheumatism, I mean, not the folks that’s got it. they don’t go at all, sometimes. Old Dr. Cole don’t, and that’s what he’s got. But when I asked ma what a grouch was, she said little boys should be seen and not heard. Ma always says that when she don’t want to answer my questions. Do you? Have you got any little boys, Mr. Smith?”
“No, Benny. I’m a poor old bachelor.”
“Oh, are you poor, too? That’s too bad.”