Summoned to dinner, he sat at table with stupid hands and evasive eyes.
Little Johnny, who was, as Polly put it, "as sharp as mustard," was
prompt to note his uncle's vacancy.
"What you staring at, Nunkey?" he demanded, his mouth full of
roly-pudding, which he was stuffing down with all possible dispatch.
"Hush, Johnny. Don't tease your uncle."
"What do you mean, my boy?"
"I mean . . ." Young John squeezed his last mouthful over his windpipe
and raised his plate. "I mean, you look just like you was seein' a
emeny.--More puddin', Aunt Polly!"
"What does the child mean? An anemone?"
"NO!" said John with the immense contempt of five years. "I didn't say
anner emeny." Here, he began to tuck in anew, aiding the slow work of
his spoon with his more habile fingers. "A emeny's d emeny. Like on de
pickshur in Aunt Polly's room. One . . . one's de English, an' one's de
emeny."
"It's the Battle of Waterloo," explained Polly. "He stands in front of
it every day."
"Yes. An' when I'm a big man, I'm goin' to be a sojer, an' wear a red
coat, an' make 'bung'!" and he shot an imaginary gun at his sister, who
squealed and ducked her head.
"An ancient wish, my son," said Mahony, when Johnny had been reproved
and Trotty comforted. "Tom-thumbs like you have voiced it since the
world--or rather since war first began."
"Don't care. Nunkey, why is de English and why is de emeny?"
But Mahony shrank from the gush of whats and whys he would let loose on
himself, did he attempt to answer this question.
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