“Well—where are you going now, any how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know? that’s a pretty story! how did you come by those good clothes? I’ll bet a sixpence you stole ’em; they are genuine broadcloth—fine as our minister wears—and you begging for a piece of bread! I can’t put that and that together. You don’t get any bread from me, till you open your mouth a little wider, my young mister, and tell me what you are up to. I shouldn’t wonder if you were sent here by some bad people, or something, to see if my man was to home; I can tell you now that he ain’t, but there’s a gun behind that kitchen door that’s better than forty of him, and I know how to handle it, too. Do you hear that, now? I’ll have you taken to—taken to—I’ll have something done to you—see if I don’t; if you don’t tell me in two minutes who sent you to my house!” said the curious Betty. “I don’t believe you are hungry—it is all a sham!”
“I am, really,” said the boy. “Nobody sent me here; I never did any thing bad. Won’t you give me a piece of bread, and tell me what road this is?”
“He’s crazy!” said Betty, looking close into the boy’s eyes.
“No, I am not crazy. I—I—I don’t know the way home.”
“Where is your home?”
The boy hesitated, and hung his head.
“Tut, now, if you want your bread,” said Betty, growing more and more curious, snatching a fragment of a loaf, and holding it up before him—“if you want this now, tell me where you live?”
“In the city,” said the boy.