“Yes,” I replied, “Wanza is very kind.”
“Then if you don’t mind, Mr. David—really truly don’t mind—I’d like to give the kickshaw box to her.”
The brown eyes that came up to mine were imploring, the small tanned face was suddenly aquiver with emotion. I laid my tools aside, and looked thoughtfully out of the window.
“Wanza’s awfully good to me, Mr. David,” the small boy continued. “She’s put patches on my overalls, and sewed buttons on my shirts, and darned my stockings—and the other day she made me a kite. And she plays cat’s cradle with me, and brings me glass marbles. And when she gets rich she’s going to buy me a gold-fish.”
“What a formidable list of good deeds. The box is Wanza’s,” I declared, facing around. “We will present it to her this evening.”
“Do you ’spose she has any kickshaws to put in it, Mr. David?”
“Why—I don’t know, lad, I don’t know,” I replied musingly. “It seems to me very probable.”
“Do girls have kickshaws, Mr. David?”
“Almost every one has some sort of keepsake, Joey lad.”
He surveyed his burr basket with disfavor, tore it apart and began hurriedly to build it over.