Suddenly, as the two walked along, the man felt a hard, hot little hand slide into his. “I guess you must be an awful smart man,” said the boy.
“What is your name?” said Anderson, in lieu of a disclaimer, which somehow he felt would seem to savor of mock modesty in the face of this youthful enthusiasm.
“Why, don't you know?” asked the boy, in some wonder. “I thought everybody knew who we were. I am Captain Carroll's son. My name is Eddy Carroll.”
“I knew you were Captain Carroll's son, but I did not know your first name.”
“I knew you,” said the boy. “I saw you out in the field catching butterflies.”
“Where were you?”
“Oh, I was fishing. I was under those willows by the brook. I kept pretty still, and you didn't see me. Have to lay low while you're fishing, you know.”
“Of course,” said Anderson.
“I didn't catch anything. I don't believe fish are very thick in the brooks around here. I used to catch great big fellers when I lived in Hillfield. One day—”
“When do you have your dinner at home?” broke in Anderson.