“Vulgarly called a bump,” continued he.
“It ain’t a bump too, nyther,” says his mother. “It’s his nat’rul shape.”
“No doubt of that,” said the villin.
“Well now, if ever I heard the beat o’ that,” says she, “that bump’s come nat’rul.”
So he told her they was only called bumps, ’cause they looked like ’em; and the bigger they were, and the more there was on ’em, the more different sorts of capacities and idees folks had—and so on.
At first she thought the man was stark mad; but he seemed entirely harmless, and so she let him go on with his stuff, and somehow he e’en a most persuaded her it was all gospel. He said little Moses had got the bump of destruction to an all-fired degree, tho’ it was in the mother’s power to help it considerable. But when Hannah asked him if she must swathe up his head he snortered right out; and then went on to say, that Moses had jist got sich a shaped head as the man had that was hung down to Boston last September. He finally talked her into a livin’ fidgit—polite as a stage-driver, all the time too, and so larnt, besides, that Hannah couldn’t do nothin’ but paraphrase. So arter he’d drinked a quart o’ beer, and Hannah cut a mince-pie for him, he cleared, leaving Hannah in such a stew, that kept workin’ up and workin’ up till she heered me comin’ into the house, and then it all burst out to once. A tempestical time there was, I tell you.
Now, by the time Hannah had finished her lockrum, you may depend I was in an almighty passion; and it was amazin’ lucky for the feller that he was out of arm’s length that minit. But then I understood it all better than she, for I’d seen, in the prints, pieces about Franology or Cranology, or some such stuff that seemed to explain to my mind what the feller meant. But poor Hannah don’t get much time to read newspapers, so that she hadn’t hearn a word. No wonder she took the man for a crazy critter.
Yet, somehow, when I looked at Moses, I couldn’t help consatin’ that his head looked sort o’ queer, tho’ I wouldn’t say nothin’ nyther; but, says I, “Hannah, look here, that feller that’s been treatin’ you to sich a rigmarole of nonsense is a rotten fool, and you’re another. If iver I should light ’pon him, I gess I would give his head a bump that would save him from the gallows. All is, if you think anything is the matter with the young one, why I’ll go arter the docter, and that’ll settle it.”
“Do, John,” says she.
So off I starts for Doctor Eldrich; but by the time I got to the house, I begun to think what a tarnation goose I was to go on such a tomfool’s arrent. By good luck, howsomever, the doctor was out; so I jist left word for him to come to our house in the course iv the day, if he had nothin’ else to do.