The hat was turned round again.
“Whar wus I a-gwine?” deprecatingly. “Whar? Oh! I—I was a-gwine—I was a-gwine to Marthy’s, I guess.”
“You’re pretty late,” remarked Tom; “better lose no time; it’s a pretty bad road between here and there.”
“So ’tis,” replied Mr. Stamps, apparently struck with the originality of the suggestion. “So ’tis!” He appeared to reflect deeply for a few seconds, but suddenly his eyes began to wander across the room and rested finally upon the corner in which the cradle stood. He jerked his head towards it.
“It’s thar, is it?” he enquired.
“Yes, she’s thar,” Tom answered, rather crustily. “What of it?”
“Oh! nothin’, nothin’, Tom, only it’s kinder curi’s—kinder curi’s.”
“Well,” said Tom, “I’ve not begun to look at it in that light yet myself.”
“Hain’t ye, now?” softly. “Hain’t ye, Tom?”
Then a faint little chuckle broke from him—not an intrusive chuckle, quite the contrary; a deprecatory and inadvertent sort of chuckle.