“You call that a school?” exclaimed Abe, his large nose curling in disdain.
“Everybody calls it a school,” answered Clarence, blithely, “even the babes in their mothers’ arms.”
“What about readin’, ’ritin’ and ’rithmetic?” continued the incredulous steersman.
“Oh, we’ve got all that, too; if we want that sort of thing. We can’t be running and jumping all day, you know.”
“That’s a measly school,” continued Abe.
“Awful sorry you don’t like it. Of course, you don’t have to come.”
“No school for me,” said Abe emphatically. “Say, why ain’t you at school now?”
“Because my ma and my pa are over here visiting. They’re going West as far as the coast, and my pa’s taking me along so’s he’ll know me next time he sees me. And my ma says she’s real anxious to make my acquaintance.”
“You don’t mean to say you don’t know your own pa and your own ma?” cried the scandalized Abe.
“Well, I haven’t seen ’em ever since I was eleven. A boy changes a good deal in three years. My ma didn’t change so much. But she says she’d hardly know me. I say, this river looks fine! How is it for swimming?”