“And what’s your name?”
“Henry Clay Bean, suh.”
“But folks mos’ giner’ly calls him Beany fo’ short,” his cousin Glory added.
“And you’re a dinner-toter, too, Henry Clay?”
“Not no mo’, suh,” he corrected him pridefully. “Super, he put me on when he laid gran-pappy off. Glory, she’s going to learn me.”
“Well, now, that’s awfully nice of Glory, isn’t it?”
“Yes, suh.”
He had never seen such a solemn child. Gloriana-Virginia’s wise little face lighted swiftly at the suggestion of mirth, and M’liss’s saturnine countenance was capable of grim comedy, and the old man had a mild and toothless smile which gave him the effect of an elderly infant, but Henry Clay Bean was a study in utter sobriety. Young Mr. Parker made the face which had added materially to his childhood fame, but while Glory gave a little squealing giggle the small boy was impassive.
“Was it an election bet, or do they dock you for ribald laughter, Beany?”
“Yes—no, suh.” A faint frown knitted his forehead for an instant but his round eyes never left his questioner’s face. He was suddenly lifted and flung to a seat on a white shoulder. “And you know, Henry Clay, there are those who consider me a comedian?”