"Because I can learn everything there is to learn, and there isn't any other place for me to go."
This was said with equal simplicity. No whining; no "me mother's dead, sir, an' I ain't had nothin' to eat all day," etc. Not that air about him at all. It was merely the statement of a fact which he felt sure I knew all about.
"What's your name?"
"Ned."
"Ned what?"
"Ned Rankin, sir."
"How old are you?"
"I'm eight"—then, thoughtfully—"no, I'm nine years old."
"Where do you live?"
I was firing these questions one after the other without the slightest interest in either the boy or his welfare. My mind was on my lecture, and the impatient look on the faces of the audience, and the consulted watch of the chairman of the committee, followed by the inevitable: "You are not very prompt, sir," etc. "Our people have been in their seats," etc. If the boy had previously replied to my question as to where he lived, I had forgotten the name of the town.