“Oh, nothing much,” replied Jim, “it’s just my little lively way, you know. But your mother don’t think neighbors need to live next door to each other; you ask her if she does!”
“Oh!” said Johnny, “why can’t you say what you mean right out, Jim?”
“Well, I might, possibly, I suppose,” and Jim looked thoughtful, “but I’ve a general idea it wouldn’t always give satisfaction all round, and I’m the last man to hurt a fellow-critter’s feelings, as you ought to know by this time, Johnny!”
“I must go home,” said Johnny, suddenly, “Goodbye, Jim.”
“Goodbye to you,” responded Jim, affably, “I’ll be along as usual, if you’ve no previous engagement.”
“All right—but look here, Jim,” and Johnny wheeled abruptly round again, “why do you buy that little Taffy’s papers for him?”
“You’d better go home, Johnny—you might be late for your tea, my dear boy!”
“Now, Jim Brady, you tell me!”
“Because the big boys hustle him, and he can’t fight his way through because he’s lame. Now get out!”
Johnny obeyed, but he was thinking harder than ever, now. And a sort of refrain was running through his mind—a sentence from the story Jim had recalled to him: “And who is my neighbor?”