"Why, darling?" his mother asked, puzzled. "What's the matter with you, anyhow?" She looked at him—realizing some subtle change in him, bewildered by it: searching eagerly for the nature and cause. "You didn't used to be like that," she said.
"I don't like him. He's wicked. He frightens me."
The man slipped suddenly from the bench—sprawling upon the walk. The woman laughed.
"Don't laugh!" the boy exclaimed—a cry of reproach, not free of indignation. "Oh, mother," he complained, putting her hand to his cheek, "how could you!"
She did not answer. The derelict picked himself up, whining in a maudlin way.
"How could you!" the boy repeated.
"Oh," said she, lightly, "he's all right. He won't hurt us."
"He's wicked!"
"He's drunk. It don't matter. What's come over you, dear?"
"I'm afraid," said the boy. "He's sinful."