Tembarom walked over to the sofa.
“Say,” he began with jocular intent, “you've got a grouch on, ain't you?”
Tummas turned on him eyes which bored. An analytical observer or a painter might have seen that he had a burning curiousness of look, a sort of investigatory fever of expression.
“I dunnot know what tha means,” he said. “Happen tha'rt talkin' 'Merican?”
“That's just what it is,” admitted Tembarom. “What are you talking?”
“Lancashire,” said Tummas. “Theer's some sense i' that.”
Tembarom sat down near him. The boy turned over against his pillow and put his chin in the hollow of his palm and stared.
“I've wanted to see thee,” he remarked. “I've made mother an' Aunt Susan an' feyther tell me every bit they've heared about thee in the village. Theer was a lot of it. Tha coom fro' 'Meriker?”
“Yes.” Tembarom began vaguely to feel the demand in the burning curiosity.
“Gi' me that theer book,” the boy said, pointing to a small table heaped with a miscellaneous jumble of things and standing not far from him. “It's a' atlas,” he added as Tembarom gave it to him. “Yo' con find places in it.” He turned the leaves until he found a map of the world. “Theer's 'Meriker,” he said, pointing to the United States. “That theer's north and that theer's south. All th' real 'Merikens comes from the North, wheer New York is.”