“He isn’t crazy,” put in Frank. “He is stage-struck; that’s all.”
“The pot of gold is mine!” went on the stage-struck Jack. “It is mine, I tell you, all mine! And Lady Leonora shall be my bride!” And throwing down the pitchfork, he stooped and caught up a bushel basket filled with blocks of wood and hugged it to his breast.
“Jack, what is the matter!” cried his mother, and caught him from behind.
“Wha—what’s up?” stammered the would-be actor, and he dropped the bushel basket like a hot potato. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’, ma!”
“What do you mean by carrying on so?” she asked, severely.
“Ain’t carryin’ on. I’m speakin’ a piece.”
“A what?”
“A piece.”
“It didn’t sound much like a piece to me. What reader did you get it from?”
“Didn’t git it from no reader.”