“Oh,” he says, “we ain’t boys.”
“Well,” says I, “one of you is. And I don’t ever rent to ’em. They ain’t got enough silence to ’em,” I says, as delicate as I could.
Just then the little lad himself looked up innocent and took a hand without meaning to.
“Is your doggy home?” says he.
“Yes,” I says, “curled up on the back mat.” I felt kind of glad I didn’t have to tell him I didn’t have one.
“I’d like,” says he, grave, “to fluffle it till you’re through.”
“So do,” says I, hearty, and he trotted round the house like a little minister.
I kind o’ tiptoed after him, casual. All of a sudden I wanted to see what he done. His father come behind me on the boards, and we saw the little fellow bend over and pat Mac, my water spaniel, as gentle as if he’d been cut glass. The little boy looked awful cute, bending over, his short hair sticking out at the back. I can see him yet.
“How much,” says I, “would you want to pay for your room?”
“Well,” says his father, “not much. But I give a guess your price is what it’s worth—no more, no less.”