Pollyanna laughed.
“Now you don't look as if you'd be glad even for calf's-foot jelly,” she chuckled, stopping before him.
The boy stirred restlessly, gave her a surprised look, and began to whittle again at his stick, with the dull, broken-bladed knife in his hand.
Pollyanna hesitated, then dropped herself comfortably down on the grass near him. In spite of Pollyanna's brave assertion that she was “used to Ladies' Aiders,” and “didn't mind,” she had sighed at times for some companion of her own age. Hence her determination to make the most of this one.
“My name's Pollyanna Whittier,” she began pleasantly. “What's yours?”
Again the boy stirred restlessly. He even almost got to his feet. But he settled back.
“Jimmy Bean,” he grunted with ungracious indifference.
“Good! Now we're introduced. I'm glad you did your part—some folks don't, you know. I live at Miss Polly Harrington's house. Where do you live?”
“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere! Why, you can't do that—everybody lives somewhere,” asserted Pollyanna.