"This here small contrivance, my son," says I, "is called a flute."
The lad scowled.
"Is she?" says he.
"Ay," says I, wonderin' wherein I had offended the wee feller; "that's the name she goes by in the parts she hails from."
"Hm-m," says he.
I seed that he wasn't thinkin' about the flute—that he was broodin'. All at once, then, I learned what 'twas about.
"I isn't your son," says he.
"That's true," says I. "What about it?"
"Well, you called me your son, didn't you?"
"Oh, well," says I, "I didn't mean——"