“Well, the whole of it is James Wilson, but I guess you’d better call me Jim. I’m useter that.”
“What did you do this morning?” Miss Tarbox felt called upon to sustain and direct further conversation.
“I went over to see the boy ’cross the street and we’re goin’ to play Indian this afternoon. Did you ever play Indian?”
Miss Tarbox shook her head.
“You stick feathers all ’round your hat, and you make a fire and roast potatoes, and yell and eat the potatoes. That boy is a mighty nice feller. I told him I was stoppin’ with you and goin’ to have a dandy time. I guess he don’t know you very well. I told him I thought you was kinder hard to git acquainted with. He said we’d git our feathers out o’ his hen-yard, and I thought p’r’aps I might bring the potatoes. Do you think you could let me have two potatoes? I won’t eat quite so much next time.”
Miss Lucinda drew a long breath. “Yes,” she said, “I’ll let you have the potatoes.”
“Now that’s real nice. I told him I thought you’d be willin’.”
As soon as dinner was over Miss Lucinda brought the two potatoes from the cellar, but the boy did not go at once; he sat on a chair in the kitchen, and watched her brisk movements as she cleared the table and made ready to wash the dishes.
“Say, you’re awful smart, ain’t you?” he asked after a moment of observation, and Miss Tarbox, somewhat overwhelmed did not reply.
He placed his elbow on his round knee and his chin on his small hand and stared a few moments in silence.