"What you got in that thar gol' machine? Kin I look, too?"
"What have I got? Why—I've got a bit of the devil in here."
"Whar'd you git him? Huh?"
"Oh, I found him along the road between here and the station."
"Did—did he come on the cyars with you? Whar war he at? Hu come he in thar?" David did not reply for an instant, and the awed child drew a step nearer. "Whar war he at?" he insisted. "Hu come he in thar?"
"He was hanging to a bush as I came along, and I put him in my box and brought him home and cut him up and put a little bit of him in here."
Then there was silence, and David forgot the small boy until he heard a deep-drawn sigh behind him. Looking up for the first time, he saw him standing aloof, a look of terror in his wide eyes as if he fain would run away, but could not from sheer fright. Poor little mite! David in his playful speech had not dreamed of being taken in earnest. He drew the child to his side, where he cuddled gladly, nestling his twisted little body close, partly for protection, and partly in love.
"You reckon he's plumb dade?" David could feel the child's heart beating in a heavy labored way against his arm as he held him, and, pushing his papers one side, he lifted him to his knee.