"Indolentia, my dear boy, indolentia; a terrible affliction. But how about Grandpa Simon? Has he discovered your retreat?
"Has the bald, bad eagle of the plain
Swooped down upon his prey again?"
"Well, not hardly that," responded Ralph, "but he's foun' me."
"Indeed! And what is his state of mind concerning you now?"
"He ain't my grandfather," said the boy, abruptly.
"Ain't your grandfather! You startle me."
"No, he ain't no relation to me."
"You take my breath away! Who are you, then?"
"I'm Ralph Burnham. I'm Robert Burnham's son."
Ralph had not meant to disclose so much, in this place, to this fellow, but the words came out before he thought. It did not matter much anyway,—every one would soon know it.