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. Baslim smiled back.
The boy's smile vanished. He turned white, then a light green. A rope of drool came willy-nilly from a corner of his mouth--and he was disastrously sick.
Baslim moved to avoid the explosion. "Stars in heaven, I'm an idiot!" he exclaimed, in his native language. He went into the kitchen, returned with rags and pail, wiped the boy's face and told him sharply to quiet down, then cleaned the stone floor.
After a bit he returned with a much smaller ration, only broth and a small piece of bread. "Soak the bread and eat it."
"I better not."
"Eat it. You won't be sick again. I should have known better, seeing your belly against your backbone, than to give you a man-sized meal. But eat slowly."
The boy looked up and his chin quivered. Then he took a small spoonful. Baslim watched while he finished the broth and most of the bread.
"Good," Baslim said at last. "Well, I'm for bed, lad. By the way, what's your name?"
The boy hesitated. "Thorby."
" 'Thorby'--a good name. You can call me 'Pop.' Good night." He unstrapped his leg, hopped to the shelf and put it away, hopped to his bed. It was a peasant bed, a hard mattress in a corner. He scrunched close to the wall to leave room for the boy and said, "Put out the light before you come to bed." Then he closed his eyes and waited.
There was long silence. He heard the boy go to the door; the light went out Baslim waited, listening for noise of the door opening
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