"Jest let me hear any one mention Ann's name and his'n," said Mrs. White; "jest let me hear 'em, they'll have to prove their sayings! 'Tell it in the country, tell it in the court,' is my motto. I'd never stand no creepin', sneakin' talk about my folks!" Here she was interrupted by her son Bing, who dashed along the veranda, flung himself down on the open door-step, and ejaculated:
"Bats bring bedbugs."
"What?" said Mrs. Deans.
"For the land's sake, Bing, what are you talking about?" asked his mother.
"Bats," said Bing, chattering his words out with his customary rapidity. "Caught one in the back bedroom, between the shatter and the window; bites like the mischief; got round ears that stick up—got fur on it—got leather wings, and bedbugs under 'em."
"Well, it beats all," said his mother, and Mrs. Deans looked at him curiously. But keen as her eyes were, they saw no change in him from the boy of four or five years back. For although Bing was between sixteen and seventeen, he was no larger than a child of twelve: an ill-conditioned, withered, hard little figure. His frame was spare, his little face, with its high cheek-bones, was always flushed, as though fevered by a dry and burning heat; his eyes were very light blue, very small, very cruel-looking. They were set in a network of wrinkles. His hands were horny and thin. He stayed but a moment, then rushed off as quickly as he had come.
"Bing don't grow much," said Mrs. Deans, with a curious intonation in her voice and a covert glance at Mrs. White.
Mrs. White looked a little uncomfortable, and answered rather hastily:
"No, the Whites is all slow growers. Sam grew after we was married, and Sam's brother grew till he began to get bald!"
Mrs. Deans preserved a disagreeable silence.