“A dum’ good job, I take it. Whar you from?”
“Boston.”
“Wal, I seen some mighty queer folks as hailed from Boston, but I don’t recollec’ any jest like you.”
David laughed as he went to the corner and stooped over Swickey, who sat tearfully rocking the limp Beelzebub in her dress.
“What’s his name?” he asked gently.
“Be—el—zebub,” she sobbed.
“Will you let me look at him—just a minute?”
Swickey unrolled her skirt, the kitten tumbled from her knees, turned over, arched his back, and with tail perpendicular shot across the cabin floor and through the doorway as though nothing had happened.
David laughed boyishly.
“He’s got eight of them left, even now.”