“You ain’t told me your name yet,” persisted Deacon Cornhill, who had taken a strong liking for the strange youth. “And why do you mock at fate by calling yourself old? It’s a sin and a shame, of which you must repent some time in sackcloth and ashes.”
“I know as leetle of your sackcloth and ashes as you know of me, mister—I mean, Deacon Cornhill. Reckon I was older when I was born ’n many are when they die. I thought it proper for me to give you the name that b’longs to me where you found me. Mother calls me Rob.”
“That sounds more Christian-like. Robert is a good old family name. What name did your father have?”
“I couldn’t begin to ’numerate ’em, mis—I mean, deacon. I reckon he’s had a good round dozen, first and last.”
“Sho! but you don’t mean it! Where is he?”
“Dunno.”
“What! Don’t know where your father is? How long have you lived this harum-scarum life?”
“As long as I can remember. Push that foot out a leetle furder.”
“And you like it?”
“Don’t know any other, deacon.”