“Oh, yes,” he was saying hurriedly, “vis is Fwanklin.” He carried the book to his friend.
“Fwanklin!” repeated that gentleman with affectation of scorn, as he opened the book. “Now, sir, go back to your seat and practice your R’s. It’s ridiculous for a boy of your age to be talking baby talk.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jack, getting very red as he returned to his place. Mrs. Mar stood at the sideboard making a dressing for the salad. Every now and then she looked over her shoulder. But Jack sat impeccable in the penitential chair, saying softly, but with careful emphasis:
“Awound ve wugged wocks ve wagged wascal wan. Awound ve,”—but his eyes were too shining to show a mind properly bent upon the course pursued by that particular wascal.
After supper, while Mrs. Mar was putting Trennor and Harry to bed, Jack Galbraith looked everywhere he could think of for his book. No, Mr. Mar hadn’t seen it. “Here, I’ll lend you mine. You’ll understand some of the chapter about,”—and he turned the pages till he found the place, and he put in a slip of paper. “There! Franklin didn’t find what he was looking for, but he’s written the best travel book I know.”
“Oh, fank you, sir.” Jack took the big volume in both arms, and was making off with it.
“And look here, Jack, about that other fellow—the man who did find something up there, you and I won’t tell anybody about that.”
“Oh!” He stopped and nodded at Mar over the great book. “All wight. But I may speak to you about it sometimes—”
“When we’re alone.”