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Come in and see him took," invited Mrs. Mallston timidly. The young woman, ready to seize on any distraction, went in, scarcely understanding that her bruised ambition reached for healing to such homely, lowly natures as these. The artist was glad to see her, and she sat on the locker while preparations went on.
Mallston grinned with pleasure: "My woman wanted his picter. My woman 'lowed mebby you wouldn't charge for it if you knowed he was a namesake." "Certainly I won't. So bring him right along and we'll do our best for him."
"Oh, that's Miss Gill: she's some kin to 'em. She's a school-teacher to Bunker Hill or Peru. Laws! I hate to see anybody so proud." "That's a good boy!" said the photographer. He removed his plate and carried it to the rear room, where he required the assistance of Mallston, who had watched the process with silent interest.
Mallston set his youngest on the mother's lap and looked at it with sneaking fondness. The whole tribe seemed equally dear to him, but this youngest appealed to his strength. Mrs. Mallston was not celebrated as a tender mother.
Mallston was hooted for as he came across the dewy grass on feet of brawn, shaming puny rustics by his huge physique.
Mallston was walking beside her husband, making a display of ankle-bone under her scant calico wrapper, her sun-bonnet flapping to her nose, the four juveniles able to walk dangling from her fingers or drapery. Mallston, straight as a hickory tree, carried his youngest on his bosom, patting its cheek with his horny, potato-scented palm.
The young people, both representing the afflatus of the State, met in one tragic look which ended in a smile. Next morning Mallston took his usual post in the car, shifting from one bare foot to the other, while the photographer lounged on his locker waiting for custom. The native frequently parted his shaggy jaws, but considered how he should offer his information.
The barbarian did decidedly. "Come into the back room, then, and help me." Mallston went striding through the car, and placed himself in an obedient attitude behind the partition. "Laws!" exclaimed Mrs.
"He's a fine youngster," added the latter. Mallston was then emboldened to blurt out, "We've named him." "You have? Well, what do you call him?" "We called him after you." "Why, here's an honor! How did you come to name him for me?" "I done it." "Let me see: what can I do for him? Suppose you bring him over now while we aren't very busy and I'll take his picture."
"Oh, you'll change your minds," drawled the landlady patronizingly, as became a lady of means: "he takes 'em reel cheap." The photographer met this group at his door and assisted them into the car, from which all his earlier visitors had dispersed except Mallston. Mallston stood at the steps and watched the landlady's grandchild prepared for a sitting.
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