“All right, mum;” he counts, “one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten.—You can rely on dem bein’ fresh. How’s your son comin’ on de school? He must be mos’ grown.”
“Yes, Uncle Moses: he is a clerk in a bank in Galveston.”
“Why, how ole am de boy?”
“He is eighteen.”
“You don’t tole me so! Eighteen, and getting a salary already.—Eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-foah, twenty-five.—And how’s your gal comin’ on? She was most growed up de last time I seed her.”
“She is married, and living in Dallas.”
“Wall, I declar’, how de time scoots away! And you say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She must be jest about”—
“Thirty-three.”
“Am dat so?” (counting) “firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seven, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free.—Hit am singular dat you has sich ole childruns. You don’t look more den forty years old yerseff.”
“Nonsense, old man; I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old”—