"
"Ah, indeed! at work. _Laborarium est honorarium_, as the Latin poet
has it. How often have I wished that it were possible for me to earn
my bread by the sweat of my brow; but, alas!--"
"Ain't it?" interrupted Ralph.
"No, my dear boy, it isn't. I have been afflicted, from my youth up,
with a chronic disease which the best physicians of both continents
have pronounced imminently dangerous to both life and happiness, if
physical exercise be immoderately indulged in."
"What is it?" asked Ralph, innocently.
"Indolentia, my dear boy, indolentia; a terrible affliction. But how
about Grandpa Simon? Has he discovered your retreat?
"Has the bald, bad eagle of the plain
Swooped down upon his prey again?"
"Well, not hardly that," responded Ralph, "but he's foun' me."
"Indeed! And what is his state of mind concerning you now?"
"He ain't my grandfather," said the boy, abruptly.
"Ain't your grandfather! You startle me."
"No, he ain't no relation to me."
"You take my breath away! Who are you, then?"
"I'm Ralph Burnham. I'm Robert Burnham's son."
Ralph had not meant to disclose so much, in this place, to this
fellow, but the words came out before he thought. It did not matter
much anyway,--every one would soon know it.
"Robert Burnham's son? You don't mean the rich coal proprietor who
died at his mine in Scranton last spring?"
"Yes, he's the one I mean. I'm his son."
Rhyming Joe leaned across the table, lifted up the boy's chin, and
looked into his eyes.
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