This was like a story. The luxury of a real stolen child had never before come in aunt Corinne's way.
“Why, Bobaday?” she inquired affectionately.
“Because the little girl seemed like she was dead till all at once she opened her eyes, and then her mouth as if she was going to scream again, and they stopped her mouth up, and covered her in clothes.”
“What did the wagon look like?”
“Like a little room. And they slept on the floor. They had tin things hangin' around the sides, and a stove in one corner with the pipe stickin' up through the cover. And the cover was so thick you couldn't see a light through it. You could only see through the pucker-hole where it comes together over the feed-box.”
“And how many folks were there?”
“I don't know. I saw them fussing with the little girl, and I saw it, and then I didn't stay any longer.”
“What was it, Bobaday?”
“I don't know,” he solemnly replied.
“Yes, but what did it look like?”