“I don't know yet,” he answered, carelessly. “Well enough, I guess.”
“You'll like it fust-rate bimeby. Everybody does when they get used to it. Takes some time to get used to a place, don't you know it does, Ansel?”
“My name is Albert.”
“Eh? Yes, yes, so 'tis. Yes, yes, yes. I don't know why I called you Ansel, 'less 'twas on account of my knowin' an Ansel Olsen once . . . Hum . . . Yes, yes. Well, you'll like South Harniss when you get used to it.”
The boy did not answer. He was of the opinion that he should die long before the getting used process was completed. Mr. Keeler continued.
“Come on yesterday's train, did you?” he asked.
Albert looked at him. Was the fellow joking? He did not look as if he was.
“Why no,” he replied. “I came last Monday night. Don't you remember?”
“Eh? Oh, yes . . . Yes, yes, yes . . . Last Monday night you come, eh? On the night train, eh?” He hesitated a moment and then asked. “Cap'n Lote fetch you down from the depot?”
Albert stared at him open-mouthed.