“A noise!” repeated Bog, with juvenile earnestness.

“Not an explosion, my good fellow, but tremendous public excitement—­plenty of fame, mixed with a good deal of abuse at first, and a little money, I hope.”  The inventor’s eyes flashed with the fire that Bog had often seen; and when he emphasized the word “little,” Bog knew that he meant to express the boundlessness of the wealth that his labors would bring to him.

“I believe it,” said Bog, with sincerity pictured in every lineament of his honest face.  “I’ve always believed it.”

“So you have, my dear Bog; and your faith has often cheered me,” replied the inventor, patronizingly.  “By the way, how’s your aunt?”

“Oh, yes; how is your aunt, Bog?” asked Pet.  “I had quite forgotten her.”

“She’s pooty well, ony them rheumatics troubles her some.  They’re workin’ their way from her left arm into her head, aunt says.  Week afore last they was in her feet, and they’ve ben clear round her and goin’ back agen since then.  Queer things, them rheumatics!”

“They are very painful, Bog, you know,” said Pet.

“Yes; so aunt says.”  Bog did not add, as he might have truly done, “A thousand times a day.”

“Give her my kind regards, Bog, and say I will call and see her,” continued Pet.

“My respectful regards also,” added Mr. Minford.

“Thank you,” said the boy; “but I guess you better not call, Miss Minford.  Aunt’s a good woman, but kind o’ cur’us, you know.  Them rheumatics has made a great change in her.”  Bog here referred, but made no verbal allusion, to a certain friendly call which Pet had once made upon his aunt, on which occasion that elderly lady had entertained her visitor with a monologue two hours long, giving her a complete history of the malady, from its birth in the right great toe, three years previous, through all its eccentric phenomena, to that stage of the disease which made it, as the venerable sufferer observed with, some pride, the “very wust case the doctors ever heerd of.”

Upon this fruitful theme, Bog’s aunt could and would have discoursed for hours longer, but for the appearance of Bog, when she sought a new relief from her agonies by abusing that poor fellow, charging him with neglect and ingratitude, finding fault with the food which he brought home for her from market, and asking him when he was going to buy that soft armchair he had promised her so long.  Bog laughed, and explained this outburst, by saying to Pet, “It’s only aunt’s rheumatics;” but the old lady rejected the explanation, and went on scolding and faultfinding with such increased fierceness, that Pet hastily put on her bonnet and shawl, and bade the rheumatic grumbler “good-by,” saying (which was true) that her father would be anxious about her.  Since then, the young girl had kept away from Bog’s aunt.

“I’ve bought her a nice, soft armchair lately,” continued Bog; “but it don’t do her no good.  The rheumatics seem to be getting wusser all the time; and the thing that makes them wussest of all is calls.  So I guess it’s better for aunt you should keep away, Miss Minford.”  Bog prided himself on his tact in putting forth the last argument.