"
"I - I'm eighty-seven," said the old man, rambling on, childishly
and weakly, "and I don't know as I ever was much put out by
anything. I'm not going to begin now, because of what he calls my
son. He's not my son. I've had a power of pleasant times. I
recollect once - no I don't - no, it's broken off. It was
something about a game of cricket and a friend of mine, but it's
somehow broken off. I wonder who he was - I suppose I liked him?
And I wonder what became of him - I suppose he died? But I don't
know. And I don't care, neither; I don't care a bit."
In his drowsy chuckling, and the shaking of his head, he put his
hands into his waistcoat pockets. In one of them he found a bit of
holly (left there, probably last night), which he now took out, and
looked at.
"Berries, eh?" said the old man. "Ah! It's a pity they're not
good to eat. I recollect, when I was a little chap about as high
as that, and out a walking with - let me see - who was I out a
walking with? - no, I don't remember how that was. I don't
remember as I ever walked with any one particular, or cared for any
one, or any one for me. Berries, eh? There's good cheer when
there's berries. Well; I ought to have my share of it, and to be
waited on, and kept warm and comfortable; for I'm eighty-seven, and
a poor old man.
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