“Truly, William, I had not observed it before, but, as Ned says, you do look thin, and you tell me you are unhappy. Hard study might make you thin, but can not make you unhappy. What is it?”
The more volatile and freespoken cousin answered for him.
“He's been shot, gran'pa, since you saw him last.”
“Shot?”
“Yes, shot!—He THINKS mortally. I think not. A flesh wound to my thinking, that a few months more will cure.”
“You have some joke at bottom, Edward,” said the old man gravely.
“Joke, sir! It's a tough joke that cudgels a plump lad into a lean one in a single season.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean to use your own language, gran'pa. Among the lessons I got from you when you undertook to fill our heads with wisdom by applications of smartness to a very different place—among the books we sometimes read from was one of Master Ovid.”
“Ha! ha! I see what you're after. I understand the shooting. So you think that the blind boy has hit William, eh?”