“That must have been quite a jump,” remarked Anderson, and his voice betrayed nothing.

“That setter was an awful jumper,” said the little boy.  “He died last winter.  My sisters cried, but I didn’t.”  His voice trembled a little.

“He must have been a fine dog,” said Anderson.

“Yes, sir, he could jump.  I think that piece of our house he used to jump over was higher than that,” said the boy, reflectively, with the loving tone of a panegyrist who would heap more and more honors and flowers upon a dear departed.

“A big jump,” said Anderson.

“Yes, sir, he was an awful jumper.  Those boys they said I lied.  First they said he couldn’t do it, then they said I didn’t have any dog, and then I—­”

“And then you said you had the elephant?”

“Yes, sir.  Say, you ain’t going to tell ’em what I’ve told you?”

“You better believe I’m not.  But I tell you one thing—­next time, if you’ll take my advice, you had better stick to the setter dog and let elephants alone.”

“Maybe it would be better,” said the boy.  Then he added, with a curious sort of naive slyness, “But I haven’t said I didn’t have any elephant.”

“That’s so,” said Anderson.

Suddenly, as the two walked along, the man felt a hard, hot little hand slide into his.  “I guess you must be an awful smart man,” said the boy.

“What is your name?” said Anderson, in lieu of a disclaimer, which somehow he felt would seem to savor of mock modesty in the face of this youthful enthusiasm.

“Why, don’t you know?” asked the boy, in some wonder.  “I thought everybody knew who we were.  I am Captain Carroll’s son.  My name is Eddy Carroll.”

“I knew you were Captain Carroll’s son, but I did not know your first name.”

“I knew you,” said the boy.  “I saw you out in the field catching butterflies.”

“Where were you?”

“Oh, I was fishing.  I was under those willows by the brook.  I kept pretty still, and you didn’t see me.  Have to lay low while you’re fishing, you know.”

“Of course,” said Anderson.

“I didn’t catch anything.  I don’t believe fish are very thick in the brooks around here.  I used to catch great big fellers when I lived in Hillfield.  One day—­”

“When do you have your dinner at home?” broke in Anderson.

“’Most any time.  Say, Mr. Anderson, what are you going to have for dinner?”

Anderson happened to know quite well what he was going to have for dinner, because he had himself ordered it on the way to the store that morning.  He answered at once: 

“Roast lamb and green pease and new potatoes,” said he.

“Oh!” said the boy, with unmistakable emphasis.

“And I am quite sure there is going to be a cherry-dumpling for dessert,” said Anderson, reflectively.

“I like all those things,” stated the boy, with emphasis that was pathetic.