“Father!” cried I, half sorry and half pleased.
“Who calls me father?” replied he, looking at me. “Why, you don’t mean to say that you’re my boy Tom?”
“Yes, indeed!” said I.
“Ah! yes—I recollect your smile now. Why, what a big fellow you’ve grown!”
“It’s four years since you left, father.”
“Well! I suppose it is, since you say so,” replied he, taking me by the arm, and stumping a little of one side, when he said in a low tone, “I say, Jack, what became of the old woman? Did I settle her?”
“Oh, no,” replied I, laughing, “she was only shamming.”
“Shamming was she? Well! it’s all the better—for she has been a little on my conscience, that’s truth. Shamming? Heh! She won’t sham next time, if I fall foul of her. How does she get on?”
“Oh, very well indeed.”
“And how’s your little sister? What’s her name—Jenny lengthened at both ends? I never could recollect it, though I’ve often thought of her sweet little face.”