“Outer that tree there,” replied the boy, bravely, as he pointed to the place where he had been hiding.
“Yes, I saw you come out of there; but that ain’t where you live, is it?”
“No.”
“Where do you live?” And Tim was beginning to think that it required a great deal of labor to extract a small amount of knowledge from this fat party.
“Oh, I live over the hill, about half a mile down the road. Got anything good to eat?”
The question seemed so unnecessary and out of place, considering all the circumstances, that Tim took no notice of it, but asked, “What’s your name?”
“Sam.”
“Sam what?”
“I dunno, but I guess it’s Simpson.”
“Well, you’re funny if you ain’t sure what your name is,” said Tim, thoughtfully, forgetting his own troubles in his curiosity about this queer specimen. “What makes you think your name’s Simpson?”