"Ooh-hooh," said the bear, relapsing into his musing mood, "he has another uncle. But, Jervis Whitney—now, where did I ever hear that name? It sounds as familiar to my ear as the hum of a bee. Ooh-hooh—Jervis Whitney. Yes, yes! Now I have it! I know the man; know him like a book! It's the white hunter, whom Will-o'-the-Wisp and I fell in with one moonshiny night last week; and a very pleasant sort of a fellow we found him, too. Yes, and I gave him a pair of red moccasins for his little son. Yes, and he told me his son's name was Sprigg. All as clear as moonshine now. Sprigg!"
"Sir!" The urchin would have said "what" to pap and mam.
"A particular friend of yours sent you a pair of red moccasins one night last week—did your father deliver them to you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you worn them yet?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you worn them to-day?" To which, after a pause, Sprigg owned that he had.
"Did you have them on when you left home?"
"Well, no, sir; not exactly."