“Wait till I get you some more cider, Dammy.”

Adam thoughtfully drank more pear cider and made a cigarette.  Wonderful ideas must be moving behind the blank brown of his forehead.  His mother adored him and planned a recital of his acts to Egg, who had accused Adam of being slow witted.

She wanted to justify herself, and muttered:  “I just felt he wasn’t Papa all along.  He was like one of those awful sorrowful persons in a movie.”

“Sure,” said Adam, patting her arm.  “I wish Edie’d got as nice a complexion as you, Mamma.”

“Mercy, Dammy!” his mother tittered and blushed.

Adam finished a third mug of cider and got up to examine the shelves.  He scratched the rear of one calf with the other toe, and muscles cavorted in both legs as he reached for a jar of grapefruit marmalade.  He peered through this at the lamp and put the jar back.  Mrs. Egg felt hurt.

The paragon explained:  “Too sour after strawb’ry, Mamma.  I’d like some for breakfast, though.  Back in a minute.”

He trotted out through the kitchen and vanished on the veranda.  She shivered, being alone.

Adam came back and nodded:  “Light’s out.  Any key to that room?”

“No.”

“I can always think better when I’m eatin’,” he confessed, and lifted down the plate of spiced cookies, rejected them as too fresh, and pounced on a covered dish of apple sauce.

This he absorbed in stillness, wriggling his toes on the oilcloth.  Mrs. Egg felt entirely comfortable and real.  She could hear the cook snoring.  Behind her the curtain of the pantry window fluttered.  The cool breeze was pleasant on her neck.  Adam licked the spoon and said, “Back in a minute, Mamma,” as he started for the veranda door.

Mrs. Egg reposed on the ice chest thinking about Adam.  He was like Egg, in that nothing fattened him.  She puzzled over to-morrow’s lunch.  Baked ham and sweet potatoes, sugared; creamed asparagus; hot corn muffins.  Dessert perplexed her.  Were there any brandied peaches left?  She feared not.  They belonged on the upper shelf nearest the ice chest.  Anxiety chewed her.  Mrs. Egg climbed the lid by the aid of the window sill and reached up an arm to the shelf.

Adam said, “Here y’are, Mamma.”

The pantry door shut.  Mrs. Egg swung about.  Adam stood behind a shape in blue pajamas, a hand locked on either of its elbows.  He grinned at Mrs. Egg over the mummer’s shoulder.  As the woman panted sulphur entered her throat.  The lamp threw a glare into the dark face, which seemed paler.

“Go on, Frisco,” said Adam, about the skull, “tell Mamma about her father.”

A sharp voice answered, “Let go my arms.  You’re killin’ me!”

“Quit kiddin’,” Adam growled.  “Go on!”

“He ran a joint in San Francisco and gave me a job after I got out the Navy.  Died last fall.  I kind of nursed him.  Told me to burn all these books—­diaries.  I read ’em.  He called himself Peterson.  Left all his money to a woman.  She shut the joint.  I looked some like him so I took a chance.  Leggo my arms, Egg!”