“My gracious! An’ you’re alive yet!”
“Not only that—I am happy yet! Doubly happy now that I have found somebody who may become like a little grandson to me; for I have none of my own.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Probably because I never had a wife. I would like to ‘adopt’ my Conrad’s grandson, in a way, if he will let me.”
“Who’s him?”
“Yourself.”
“Pooh! You wouldn’t want me, I guess. An’ I know ’bout ’doptingness. They was a woman in this house, she ’dopted a baby, an’ it squalled. Nen she got tired of it. Nen she wanted to give it back an’ the folks wouldn’t take it. Nen she put it in the Norphan ’Sylum. An’ it’s there yet. I’m too big, anyway. I’m going on nine. Ain’t I, Mother? When will I be as old as nine?”
“Next Fourth of July, dear. You certainly are too old for adoption, as you mean it. But if Mr. Brook hasn’t any odd, small people to make him both glad and sorry, all in a minute, you might supply the deficiency.”
“H’m-m. I guess I’d better not. I ain’t very good. I don’t have time to be.”
“Indeed? What keeps you busy?” asked the amused old gentleman.