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So that’s what I tell them now when they ask me about all of you. I have to tell the truth. I always said that you were smart enough, Eugene—but when they come around and brag to me about you, and about how you have got on and have a kind of name—I don’t let on, you know. I just sit there and let them talk. I don’t brag on you—if they want to brag on you, that’s their business. I never bragged on one of my children in my life. When father raised us up, we were all brought up to believe that it was not good breeding to brag about your kin.”If the others want to do it,” father said, “well, let them do it. Don’tever let on by a word or sign that you know what they are talking about. Just let them do the talking, and say nothing.”

So, when they come around and tell me all about the things you’ve done—I don’t let on to them, I never say a word. Why yes!—why, here, you know—oh, along about a month or so ago, this feller comes—a well-dressed man, you know—he looked intelligent, a good substantial sort of person. He said he came from New Jersey, or somewhere up in that part of the country, and he began to ask me all sorts of questions—what you were like when you were a boy, and all such stuff as that.”

I just pretend to study it all over and then I said, “Well, yes”—real serious-like, you know—”well, yes—I reckon I ought to know a little something about him. Eugene was my child, just the same as all the others were. I brought him up just the way I brought up all the others. And,” I says—oh, just as solemn as you please—”he wasn’t a bad sort of a boy. Why,” I says, “up to the time that he was twelve years old he was just about the same as any other boy—a good, average, normal sort of fellow.”

“Oh,” he says.”But didn’t you notice something? Wasn’t there something kind of strange?” he says—”something differentfrom what you noticed in the other children?”

I didn’t let on, you know—I just took it all in and looked solemn as an owl—I just pretended to study it all over, just as serious as you please.

“Why no,” I says, real slow-like, after I studied it all over.”As I remember it, he was a good, ordinary, normal sort of boy, just like all the others.”

“Yes,” he says—oh, all excited-like, you know—”But didn’t you notice how brilliant he was? Eugene must have been more brilliant than the rest!”

“Well, now,” I says, and pretended to study that all over too.”Now let me see. . . . Yes,” I says—I just looked himin the eye, as solemn as you please—”he did pretty well. . . . Well, yes,” I says, “I guess he was a fairly bright sort of a boy. I never had no complaints to make of him on that score. He was bright enough,” I says.”The only trouble with him was that he was lazy.”

“Lazy!” he says—oh, you should have seen the look upon his face, you know—he jumped like someone had stuck a pin in him.”Lazy!” he says.”Why, you don’t mean to tell me—”

“Yes,” I says—oh, I never cracked a smile—”I was telling him the same thing myself the last time that I saw him. I told him it was a mighty lucky thing for him that he had the gift of gab. Of course, he went off to college and read a lot of books, and I reckon that’s where he got this flow of language they say he has. But as I said to him the last time I saw him: ‘Now look a-here,” I said.’If you can earn your living doing a light, easy class of work like this you do,’ I says, ‘you’re mighty lucky, because none of the rest of your people,’ I says, ‘had any such luck as that. They had to work hard for a living.’ “

Oh, I told him, you know. I came right out with it. I made no bones about it. And I tell you what—I wish you could have seen his face. It was a study.