And the languid mamma performed a very well-executed yawn.
“Honor? I suppose there is. What do you mean?” replied Alfred.
Mamma yawned again.
“How drowsy one does feel here! I am so sleepy! What was I saying? Oh I remember. Perhaps, however, Mr. Beacon doesn’t know. That is probably the reason. He doesn’t know. Well, in that case it is not so extraordinary. But I should think he must have seen, or inferred, or heard. A man may be very stupid; but he has no right to be so stupid as that. How many glasses do you drink at the spring in the morning, Alfred? Not more than six at the outside, I hope. Well, I believe I’ll take a little nap.”
She played with her cap string, somehow as if she were an angler playing a fish. There is capital trouting at Saratoga—or was, thirty years ago. You may see to this day a good many fish that were caught there, and with every kind of line and bait.
Alfred bit again.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk in such a puzzling kind of way, mother. What do you mean about his knowing, and hearing, and inferring?”
“Come, come, Alfred, you are getting too cunning. Why, you sly dog, do you think you can impose upon me with an air of ignorance because I am so sleepy. Heigh-ho.”
Another successful yawn. Sportsmen are surely the best sport in the world.
“Now, Alfred,” continued his mother, “are you so silly as to suppose for one moment that Bowdoin Beacon has not seen the whole thing and known it from the beginning?”