“Now let’s see,” says Catty on Sunday afternoon while we were sitting
under a tree down by the bayou. “I guess everything’s ready for
to-morrow. We got our paints on credit; we got our brushes and them
things, we got our painters, and we got our ladders, and the only ready
money we had to have was for our painter’s clothes for Dad. Seems like
you can git a lot without money sometimes, don’t it?”
“But you got to have money some time,” says I.
“To be sure,” says Catty, “but the money’s comin’ after the job. We kin
finish it in a week, and then we’ll have quite a wad. But we ought to
have some in the mean time. Got to eat.... I’ll have to scurry around
and git some, I guess. That and keepin’ an eye on Dad so’s he won’t go
traipsin’ off to fish or set down alongside of a brook, or tramp off
through the country, will about keep me busy.”
“I never saw anybody look so different as your father does,” says I.
“It hain’t a patch on how different he’ll look when I git through with
him,” says Catty. “Say, Wee-wee, you know quite a lot about manners,
don’t you? Your Ma and Pa teaches you how to eat proper and all that?”
“Dad says sometimes that I hain’t got no more manners than an alley
cat,” says I.
“But he don’t mean it,” says Catty. “Now let’s pertend we’re settin’ at
table. We’ll git sticks and chips for plates and the tools to eat with,
and you sort of show me jest how each one is used respectable. I got to
learn so’s I kin teach Dad. He’s goin’ to need manners perty soon,
’cause I’m goin’ to see to it he goes places where manners comes in
handy. Now while it’s vacation, I got time to monkey with manners. When
school-time comes I’m a-goin’ to be perty busy with gittin’ educated and
runnin’ my shop.”
It sounded kind of funny to me, but we fiddled around and got chips and
sticks and made believe they was knives and forks and plates and cups
and things. We spread them on top of a flat stone and started in to make
believe we was eating.
We started with soup, and I explained to Catty that the way to eat soup
was off’n the _side_ of your spoon, and not to ram the whole thing into
your mouth, point first, like a fellow wants to and the way it is
handiest. I never could see any sense to eating soup that way. It sort
of takes the pleasure out of it. And I told him you mustn’t make any
noise. A fellow gets more enjoyment out of soup when he can sort of
_whoosh_ it into his mouth off of his spoon, but it hain’t anyways
polite to do it.
Well, Catty ate soup quite a spell, doing it over and over till he was
sure he had it down pat. I never saw anybody so thorough on the
soup-eating question. He practised and practised till I’ll bet he could
eat soup as good as Queen Victoria. Then we went on to other things, and
practised them over and over; and we monkeyed with napkins, and with
getting up from the table, and the whole business. I didn’t know I was
acquainted with so many table manners till I started to teach Catty, but
I knew quite a mess—most of which I didn’t use much as a common thing.
We put in a whole hour at it, and it was hard work.
“There,” says Catty, “I guess I got the hang of it. Dunno but what I’d
git scared if I was company some place, and mess things up, but I’ll
practise with Dad every day till I git it down fine.”
“You’re dog-gone anxious about manners and things,” says I.
“I got to be,” says he, “because folks won’t expect me to have any, and
when they see I got ’em they’ll be surprised, and it ’ll help ’em to git
the idee I’m respectable. Dad and me has got to be more p’tic’lar about
sich things than you folks have that has always been looked at as
respectable.”
Well, Catty and I fussed around the rest of that day and didn’t do much
but rest and listen to Mr. Atkins tell how hard work it was to work, and
that a body enjoyed tramping around the country more than he did
spreading paint on a board full of slivers, but Catty kept at him, and
held him down to it, and told him he’d get used to it in a little while
and enjoy it.
“I calc’late,” says Mr. Atkins, “that if a feller had a boil long enough
he might git sort of fond of it, but a boil hain’t my idee of a pet. You
kin get used to havin’ one leg, and you can git used to a corn, but I
dunno anybody that _wants_ to. Work is right in the class with them.
It’s painful, that’s what it is.”
“It’s got to be done,” says Catty. “You and me has got to make a lot of
money, and were a-goin’ to. The time’s a-comin’, Dad, when you and me is
goin’ to own a house and keep a hired girl and invite folks in to
dinner. You wait. I got it all figgered out jest what we’re a-goin’ to
do.... And we’re a-goin’ to do it, you can bet. Everything I got planned
out is goin’ to happen. Every single thing. And to make it happen you
got to work like blazes, and I got to figger like blazes.... I’m a-goin’
to teach you manners, Dad.”
“Manners! Who? Me?... Hoo! Wouldn’t I look nice with manners? What ’u’d
I do with ’em, Catty?”
“Never you mind, Dad, you’re a-goin’ to have plenty of ’em, so git ready
fer it.”
I went to bed sort of early because I wanted to be on hand before the
doings started in the morning, and I was there. It was a great morning,
and most of the town was on hand to see the parade start off and the
beginning of the painting-race. Mr. Manning came out to see what was
going on, and Catty says to him, “We’re on the job on time, Mr.
Manning.”
“I see you are,” says he. That was all, but he sort of grinned and
walked back into his office.
After a while folks sort of wandered off home and the real work began.
Mr. Atkins was supposed to be the boss, but Catty was the fellow that
did the bossing. He kept his eye on his father mostly, and every time
Mr. Atkins acted like he was going to come down off his ladder and rest,
Catty was right there to sick him on, and every once in a while he would
make his Dad come down and walk around to look at Patt and Jones and
sort of jack them up and make them believe he was right on the job.
“I wish Dad was kind of broke to work,” says Catty, “because there’s a
lot of things I’ve got to do. But I can’t go off and leave him yet.” All
that day those three men painted, and it was a surprise to me to see how
much they got done. At night Mr. Atkins grumbled and talked a lot about
pains in his back, and painter’s colic and such things, but Catty was
right on top of him all the time and led him to work next morning.
“Dad,” says he, “you always keep your word when you give it, don’t you?”
“Calc’late to,” says Mr. Atkins.
“I want you should promise me you won’t do nothin’ but work till I git
back. I’ve got to go and do some things. Will you promise?”
“Don’t see how I kin git out of it,” says Mr. Atkins, kind of sorrowful.
“All right,” says Catty. “Come on, Wee-wee.
“Where?” says I.
“Got to look around for another job to be done when we finish this,”
says he.
“Where?” says I.
“I dunno,” says he.
We went over to town and walked around sort of aimless, keeping our eyes
open for a place that looked like painting was needed, but Catty said
that wasn’t any way. We had to find out some way of discovering who
_wanted_ to have work done, and then go and see that person and land the
job.
There was a high hedge around the Baptist Church and we lay down in the
shade of it to think it over. While we were there we saw quite a lot of
women going into the side door that led to the room in the basement
where socials and suppers were held. One of the windows was right beside
us, and pretty soon somebody opened it, because it was a warm day. Catty
and I kept talking off and on and doing all the thinking we knew how.
All at once three or four ladies came over by the window and began to
talk, and one of them was Mrs. Gage. I could tell by her voice.
“Something’s got to be done,” she said, angry-like. “And it’s us women
that have to do it.”
“Men never seem to mind such things,” said somebody else.
“We’ll make them mind it,” says Mrs. Gage. “If we just get together and
agree, we can force the men to do something. I, for one, won’t stand it.
Do you think I want my boy going to school with that little tramp? Do
you think I want them being friends? Nobody can tell what that Atkins
boy will teach our children. And look at his father—a regular old
reprobate.... The worst of it is that both of them are schemers. See how
they did in court the other night. It was a shame.”
“It was,” says another woman. “We’ve got to stand together. Why, the
first we know the boy will be coming to Sunday-school!”
“They’ve got to be forced out of town,” says Mrs. Gage.
“How can we do it?”
“There’s just one way. We must make our husbands all promise not to have
anything to do with them. If they can’t earn a living they’ll have to go
away. My husband rented them a store before he knew what he was about,
and I suppose that can’t be helped. But if nobody gives the man work to
do, why, he’ll be worse off than ever, because he’ll have rent to pay
and nothing to pay it with.”
“You’ve got the right idea, Mrs. Gage. Of course we don’t want such
people here, and you’ve found the way to get rid of them. We’ll make our
husbands boycott them.” There was a lot more such talk, about how
dangerous Catty and his father were to a decent community, and such-like
things. It made me mad all the way through. I looked at Catty. He was
sort of pale, but his lips were pressed together and his whole body was
as stiff as if it had been frozen.
“Huh!” says I.
“They can do it,” says he.
“Fiddlesticks!” says I.
“They can,” says he, “if they stick together. And I guess they’ll stick.
They don’t want us here. It doesn’t make any difference to them whether
we’re honest or respectable or not. This Mrs. Gage is mad because she
got the worst of it, and she’ll go around talking, and maybe she won’t
always tell just exactly the truth, and she’ll stir folks up against us.
It’s rotten.”
“It’s mighty mean,” says I. “What you goin’ to do about it?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m goin’ to do,” says he. “I’m goin’ to stay right
here in this town, and _prove_ to folks that Dad and I are jest as good
as they be. I’m goin’ to git work in spite of them, and I’m goin’ to
beat them. You see. I’ll stay if I have to starve. Dad and me has got a
right to work and to be decent and respectable like anybody else.
There’s no reason why we shouldn’t. We never done anybody any wrong.
Bein’ shiftless hain’t a crime, and, anyhow, we’ve quit bein’
shiftless.”
“Well?” says I.
“I got to git at somethin’ mighty quick. These women ’ll go visitin’ and
talkin’ around, and ’fore I know it they’ll have the whole town ag’in’
us. Before they git that far I’ve got to find jobs to keep us busy while
we’re provin’ to ’em that we’re fit to live here amongst them.... I
won’t leave this town! You listen to me, Wee-wee, I won’t!”
“Bully for you!” says I. “All the women won’t follow Mrs. Gage, and
there’s some bachelors that hain’t married to anybody and that women
can’t run.”
We listened again. Maybe it wasn’t right to listen to folks talk when
they didn’t know you were listening, but I guess we didn’t do so very
wrong, especially when they were talking like those women did.
Another woman—Mrs. Bockers was her name—spoke up and says:
“I’ve got a cousin, a young fellow that is a painter and paperhanger.
I’ll try to get him to move over here and go into business. He’s just
working around. If we would all agree to give him our work, I’m sure he
would come, and then it would be a lot easier to get rid of these
tramps.”
“That’s a splendid idea,” says Mrs. Gage. “I’ll write to him to-night,”
says Mrs. Bockers. “I know he’ll come.”
“Competition,” says I to Catty, “is the life of trade.”
“Hain’t got no objection to competition, so long’s we both git a fair
start.... I wish Dad and me had some money to start right with. If we
was to furnish up a store so it looked _fine_, why, that would go a long
ways. It would make us _look_ as if we amounted to somethin’.... We got
to fix up our store somehow.” He stopped and thought a minute.
“Wonder where there’s a store this Bockers man could rent,” says he.
“Dunno,” says I. “Guess there’s one to rent, jest around the corner from
yours.”
“Let’s look at it,” says he.
We walked down there and found the store. It was on a side-street, but
it was all right. “Who owns it?” says Catty.
“Dunno,” says I. “But Mr. Wade ’ll know.”
“Who’s he?”
“Insurance and real estate and not’ry public,” says I.
“Let’s go and see him,” says Catty.
We went over. Mr. Wade’s office was above the bank, and we hiked up the
stairs and rapped on his door.
“Go ’way,” somebody says inside.
“Is that Mr. Wade?” says I.
“Yes. Go ’way. I’m busy.”
“It’s Wee-wee Moore and Catty Atkins,” says I. “Can’t we come in a
minute?”
“I’m busy,” says he.
“I know what he’s doin’,” says I to Catty. “He’ll let us in. Jest
watch.”
“I wanted to ask you somethin’ about Napoleon,” says I.
In a minute he come to the door and poked his head out. It was the
baldest head in the state, and his eyebrows was bald, and he didn’t have
a mustache or whiskers. The only hairs he had was a few eyelashes, and
they were kind of yellow so you couldn’t see them very good. Besides
that he was about seven feet tall and built like a jointed fish-pole. He
sagged some around the shoulders and stooped in the middle, but he could
straighten up, and when he did it made you think of one of these
extension ladders that city fire companies have.
“What about Napoleon?” says he.
“What made him always ride a white horse?” says I.
“Come in,” says he, “come in. I was just enjoyin’ an hour or two with
Napoleon myself. Mighty glad to learn somebody else in this town ’s
int’rested in him. Was jest pastin’ on paper a few new pictures I found
of the emperor.... Come in.”
We went in. You never saw such a looking office. Every inch of the walls
was covered with pictures of Napoleon. There was hundreds of them.
Napoleon was there afoot and ahorseback. He was there fighting battles
and sitting in chairs and talking to men and holding his hands behind
his back, and ’most every way you ever heard of except flying in an
airplane. He’d have been doing that, only airplanes weren’t invented
when Napoleon was doing his best fighting around Europe.
We sat down and Mr. Wade began talking about Napoleon and his horse. It
was mighty interesting, and Catty and I listened for an hour till Mr.
Wade had run down.
“Much obleeged,” says I. “I feel better now. Kin we come in again and
talk about the emperor?”
“Any time, any time,” says he.
“By the way,” says I, “who owns that little store around the corner?”
“Tom Barnes,” says he.
“Know any other store in town that kin be rented?” says Catty.
“There hain’t another place,” says Mr. Wade.
“What’s the rent of that one?”
“Fifteen dollars a month,” says he.
“Have you got the rentin’ of it?”
“Yes.”
“Will you gimme—that is my father—a year’s lease of it for twelve and a
half a month?”
I sort of swallowed hard, because I couldn’t see what in the world Catty
wanted with another store. He had about all the stores he could use
handy.
Mr. Wade thought a minute and then said he thought it would be all
right.
“If I leased it, could I rent it out again to somebody else?”
“No reason you couldn’t,” says Mr. Wade.
“I’ll take it,” says Catty. “Git the lease drawn, and I’ll have the
money for the first month’s rent. Is the deal all closed up now?”
“Yes, Sonny. Why?”
“Because, if it is, I want you to do some business for me—for father,”
says Catty.
“What is it?”
“Be you married?” says Catty.
“Never was. Never will be.”
“Then you’ll do,” says Catty. “I want you to take this lease in your
name, not ours.”
“Why?”
Catty started in and told him the whole business about how him and his
father came to town, and about Mrs. Gage, and about how he wanted to be
respectable, and about what we heard at the church awhile ago, and about
Jim Bockers coming to town to be a competitor.
“That’s the only store he kin rent,” says Catty, “so he’ll have to rent
it. When he comes I want you should rent it to him, but the rent ’ll be
twenty dollars a month, leavin’ me a profit of seven-fifty. Make him
take a year’s lease. Git the idee?”
Mr. Wade looked at Catty. “Napoleon couldn’t ’a’ thought up a better
strategy,” says he. “Young feller, you come to the right place. I’ll do
what you want, and glad to. There won’t be no charge, neither. And any
time I kin do anything to help you, why, you come a-hustlin’ right up
here. Never can tell. Some day I might do you some good.”
“Much obleeged,” says Catty. “We won’t bother you any more.”
“Come in any time. Always welcome,” says Mr. Wade.
We went out and down-stairs. Catty was sort of smiling to himself.
“There,” says he. “I guess Mr. Bockers ’ll help us some, even if he does
hurt us some.”
“I never ’u’d ’a’ thought of that scheme in the world,” says I.
“’Twasn’t much to think of,” says Catty. And that was just like him. He
never was stuck up about the things he did, and it never tickled him to
do something especial clever. He was all for business and manners and
being respectable. If he could get what he wanted easy, why, he took it
easy. If he had to use a lot of brains, why, he just went to work and
used them. It didn’t seem to make a mite of difference to him. He was
satisfied either way.