“Is she the boss?”
“She is.”
“Thought so; does she chaw gum?”
“No.”
“What! Don’t chaw gum! What kind of a Christian is she, anyway?”
“A Methodist—an orthodox.”
“Well, so’s mam, and she chaws gum, you bet—see that”—and he held out a hand that in its normal state would have rivaled Vulcan’s for color; but the combination of pitch and dirt exhibited was a marvel of blackness. “That’s her’n.”
Thinking my turn had come, and taking advantage of the momentary lull, I inquired his name.
“Tom.”
“What is your surname?”