The boy twitched his arm away and eyed the barber witheringly. “I don't want anything to do with you nor your old barber-shop,” said he.
“You had better run along, John,” said Anderson to the barber, who was staring amazedly, although the complacent smirk upon his face was undiminished.
“I guess he's a child kinder given to speakin' at tandem,” he said, as he complied with Anderson's advice.
The boy turned at once to the man. “What business had that barber telling me to go into his old barber-shop?” demanded he. “I ain't afraid of all the boys in this one-horse town.”
“Of course not,” said Anderson.
“I did have an elephant when I lived in Hillfield, and I did ride him, and I did have circuses every Saturday,” said the boy, with challenge.
Anderson said nothing.
“At least—” said the child, in a modified tone. Anderson looked at him with an air of polite waiting. The boy's roses bloomed again. “At least—” he faltered, “at least—” A maid rang a dinner-bell frantically in the doorway of the house near which they were standing. Anderson glanced at her, then back at the boy. “At least—” said the boy, with a blurt of confidence which yielded nothing, but implied the recognition of a friend and understander in the man—“at—least I used to make believe I had an elephant when I lived in Hillfield.”
“Yes?” said Anderson. He made a movement to go, and the boy still kept at his side.
“And—” he added, but still with no tone of apology or confession, “I might have had an elephant.”