“People are common enough, anyhow,” said Tembarom. “There's nothing much commoner, is there? There's millions of 'em everywhere—billions of 'em. None of us need put on airs.”
“Tha'rt as common as me,” said Tummas, reflectively. “An' yet tha owns Temple Barholm an' aw that brass. I conna mak' out how th' loike happens.”
“Neither can I; but it does all samee.”
“It does na happen i' 'Meriker,” exulted Tummas. “Everybody's equal theer.”
“Rats!” ejaculated Tembarom. “What about multimillionaires?”
He forgot that the age of Tummas was ten. It was impossible not to forget it. He was, in fact, ten hundred, if those of his generation had been aware of the truth. But there he sat, having spent only a decade of his most recent incarnation in a whitewashed cottage, deprived of the use of his legs.
Miss Alicia, seeing that Tembarom was interested in the boy, entered into domestic conversation with Mrs. Hibblethwaite at the other side of the room. Mrs. Hibblethwaite was soon explaining the uncertainty of Susan's temper on wash-days, when it was necessary to depend on her legs.
“Can't you walk at all?” Tembarom asked. Tummas shook his head. “How long have you been lame?”
“Ever since I wur born. It's summat like rickets. I've been lyin' here aw my days. I look on at foak an' think 'em over. I've got to do summat. That's why I loike th' atlas. Little Ann Hutchinson gave it to me onct when she come to see her grandmother.”
Tembarom sat upright.