“Sit down on that stool beside me,” she said. He obeyed in silence.
“How is the cub, Jacky Giant-Killer?”
“He is gone!”
“Indeed! I am sorry for that. I wanted to see it. Did it get away?”
“No. I suppose father gave it to Tom, or somebody. I don’t care. It was my cub. I don’t care,” he repeated.
“Jacky, if Goliath had lied in proportion to his size, he could not have lied larger than that. Now, isn’t that so?”
“Oh, I don’t care, and I do.” Then he broke out angrily, “The thing is, Aunt Anne, nobody asked me a question; nobody wanted to give me a chance; and that long-legged fellow that shot the bear, he said—I wish he was my size!—he called me an idiot.”
“The description was brief and correct. What brains you have—and they are good enough—you did not use. Three people called to you to drop the cub. Why didn’t you? You see what mischief came of it; and how much worse it might have been I do not like to think. Why did you hold on to the cub?”
“I just couldn’t let it go, Aunt Anne. You’re awful good to a fellow. There is no one like you.” And here she captured his hand.
“Why couldn’t you? It was only to do that.” And she let his hand drop, and caught it again.