“Rats!” ejaculated Tembarom. “What about multimillionaires?”
He forgot that the age of Tummas was ten. It was impossible not to forget it. He was, in fact, ten hundred, if those of his generation had been aware of the truth. But there he sat, having spent only a decade of his most recent incarnation in a whitewashed cottage, deprived of the use of his legs.
Miss Alicia, seeing that Tembarom was interested in the boy, entered into domestic conversation with Mrs. Hibblethwaite at the other side of the room. Mrs. Hibblethwaite was soon explaining the uncertainty of Susan’s temper on wash-days, when it was necessary to depend on her legs.
“Can’t you walk at all?” Tembarom asked. Tummas shook his head. “How long have you been lame?”
“Ever since I weer born. It’s summat like rickets. I’ve been lyin’ here aw my days. I look on at foak an’ think ’em over. I’ve got to do summat. That’s why I loike the atlas. Little Ann Hutchinson gave it to me onct when she come to see her grandmother.”
Tembarom sat upright.
“Do you know her?” he exclaimed.
“I know her best o’ onybody in the world. An I loike her best.”
“So do I,” rashly admitted Tembarom.
“Tha does?” Tummas asked suspiciously. “Does she loike thee?”