“I did not notice; but he has a very large nose,” said the boy slowly. “He asked the way to the house.”
“Didn’t he tell you his name?”
“Yes—Bonaparte Blenkins.”
“Bonaparte!” said Em, “why that is like the reel Hottentot Hans plays on the violin—
‘Bonaparte, Bonaparte, my wife is sick;
In the middle of the week, but Sundays not,
I give her rice and beans for soup’—
It is a funny name.”
“There was a living man called Bonaparte once,” said she of the great eyes.
“Ah yes, I know,” said Em—“the poor prophet whom the lions ate. I am always so sorry for him.”
Her companion cast a quiet glance upon her.
“He was the greatest man who ever lived,” she said, “the man I like best.”