Next morning bright and early I hustled down to the shanty where Catty and his father were staying. Mr. Atkins was sitting on his log, fishing for pickerel and looking pretty sober and dubious. Catty was sitting alongside of him, looking into the bayou and never saying a word.

“Mornin’,” says I.

“Mornin’,” says Catty.

Mr. Atkins turned his head and waggled it at me. “He’s went and gone and done it,” says he.

“What?”

“Made up his mind to hitch up to this town.”

“Good!” says I. “He told us last night.”

“Dad don’t like it much,” said Catty, “but it ’ll be good for him. I’ve thought it out.”

Now wasn’t that a funny way for a boy to talk—about something being good for his Dad? You would have thought Catty was the Dad and his father was the boy.

“Yes,” says Catty, “it won’t be so much fun, maybe, and maybe it ’ll be more. I think Dad ’ll grow to like it, and he might even grow to like workin’ reg’lar. I hain’t expectin’ that, ’cause he’s been shiftless so many years, but maybe.”

“Work,” says Mr. Atkins, sadlike.

“Lots of folks does it constant,” says Catty.

“They have to,” says his father.

“You’ll have to now—some. Mind, I don’t expect you to work every day and all day long. You kin sort of git the habit by degrees. But if you don’t work some we’ll never git the respect of these here folks. I’ve been studyin’ it over, and seems like a body’s got to work to git folks’s respect. Don’t matter how good you be nor how happy you be, nor that you hain’t never done nobody any harm. You got to work. Seems kind of funny to me. If you jest work you git some respect. If you work a lot and make a little money you git more respect. But the feller that gits most respect is the one that works at makin’ other folks work for him. I’m goin’ to be that kind.”

“Meanin’ me?” says his father, as doleful as a tombstone.

“Have to start with you, I calc’late. Hain’t figgered out what to do first, exceptin’ that it ’ll have to be somethin’ to git me some money. ’Course I could start out runnin’ errants or cuttin’ grass, or even workin’ in a store, but there hain’t nothin’ in that. What I got to do is to figger out a business that’s mine and that I kin run, and where I can hire some other kid instead of somebody hirin’ me. That’s the way to git ahead.”

“But you’ll have to work for somebody to make some money to start,” says I.

“I dunno,” says he. “I’m huntin’ for a scheme—and then I’m studyin’ out what kind of a business I want to git into.”

“Hain’t it miserable?” says Mr. Atkins. “Here we been goin’ along for years with nothin’ to bother us. Didn’t have to work and didn’t have to study about schemes. Now all of a sudden this here thing comes down on top of us. Don’t know where Catty gits sich notions from. Not from me. Must come off’n his mother’s side.”

“How much money you got to have?” I asked Catty.

“Dunno, ’cause I dunno what I want it for.”

“Maybe my Dad ’u’d lend it to you,” says I.

“He won’t,” says Catty, emphatic.

“Why?”

“’Cause I won’t let him,” says he. “I’m goin’ to make it. Got to. Be more fun.”

“Fun!” says Mr. Atkins. “D’you call workin’ and makin’ money fun? Strange idee of fun. Fun’s somethin’ you laugh at and enjoy. Who ever heard of anybody laughin’ at work?”

“And we can’t live here,” says Catty.

“Why?” says Mr. Atkins.

“’Tain’t respectable. Houses without no winders into ’em hain’t respectable, and folks looks up to furniture and carpets.”

“Ho!” says Mr. Atkins. “Hain’t slept in a bed in ten year. Don’t believe I could do it.”

“It’s easy,” says I. “I do it every night.”

“All in bein’ used to it,” says he.

In spite of Mr. Atkins’s bein’ so lazy and shiftless, I took a liking to him. Somehow it didn’t seem like laziness, but like something different altogether. He was so simple and kind of gentle and his eyes was kind. You almost got the idea that he didn’t know about things, especial’ about how to work, and that it wasn’t his fault at all.

“Didn’t you ever work?” says I, because I was curious about it.

“Once,” says he.

“What at?” says I.

“Painter,” says he.

“House or picture?” says I.

“Houses mostly.”

“Must be fun—paintin’ houses,” says I.

“Would be if it wasn’t work. I calc’late I could enjoy to paint a house if I wasn’t paid for it—if I was jest doin’ it to show folks I could. But when you’re doin’ it as a job it hain’t the same.”

Catty was thinking hard. “What d’you need to go into the paintin’ business, Dad?”

“Paints,” says Mr. Atkins.

“What else?”

“Ladders and planks and brushes and oils.”

“Um!... Cost much?”

“Heaps.”

For a minute Catty didn’t say a word, but just stared at the water. Then he says to himself, “Where in tunket be I goin’ to git ladders and brushes and them things?”

“Hain’t thinkin’ of makin’ me go to paintin’, be you?”

“Thinkin’ of it some,” says Catty, “but thinkin’ ’s as far’s I kin git jest now.”

“Then I’ll keep on fishin’,” says Mr. Atkins. “No use gittin’ het up and worried before it’s time.”

“We got to have respectable clothes, too.” says Catty.

“Next thing I’ll be wearin’ a plug-hat,” says Mr. Atkins.

“Maybe on Sundays,” says Catty, serious as anything. I guess he was thinking quite a ways ahead.

“Ho!” says Mr. Atkins.

“Come on,” says Catty to me.

“Where?”

“Look around and think. I wonder if there are any ladders in this town.”

“Fire company’s got some,” says I, and grinned.

We walked up past the waterworks and down to Main Street. Catty didn’t say a word, but kept looking and looking, and sort of tucking away information about our town in his head. We walked from one end of Main Street to the other, and when we got to the town pump that stands at the end of the bridge he stopped and says:

“There hain’t a painter and paperhanger shop in town.”

“No,” says I. “We got two painters that puts up wall-paper sometimes, but they don’t keep any shop. Jest have their stuff in their barns.”

“Who sells paper?”

“Drug-stores.”

“And paint?”

“Hardware-stores.”

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing across the river.

“Kind of a furniture-factory. Make all sorts of things. That new buildin’ that’s jest bein’ finished up is a warehouse. Never saw a bigger buildin’. Two hunderd foot long and sixty wide.”

“’Tis kind of big,” says he, and began to squint at it. “Looks ’most done. Shinglin’ ’most finished.”

“Uh-huh,” says I.

“Come on,” says he, and his eyes began to kind of shine and his lips pressed together.

“Where?”

“Over there to the mill.”

“What for?”

“See the boss.”

“Mr. Manning?”

“If that’s his name.”

“He’ll kick us out. That’s the kind he is. Talks loud and bosses things, and hain’t got a mite of patience with anybody.”

“We kin outrun him,” says Catty, and he grinned kind of mischievous. “Any man kin kick me that kin catch me. Come on if you hain’t scairt.”

“Guess I dast go where you dast,” says I, and I mogged right along with him.

The office was in a little square building off to the side, and while we were going up to it I was looking around me careful to see what would be the best way to run when Mr. Manning started after us. I’d picked out just how I was going to dodge in among the lumber-piles by the time we got to the door. We went right in.

First there was a kind of an outside office where there was a bookkeeper and a typewriter working, and back of that was Mr. Manning’s office with the door shut.

Catty walked right up to the railing and says to the bookkeeper, who was Johnnie Hooper, and not very old and a lot dressy, with his hair plastered onto his head, “Is Mr. Manning in?”

“Who wants to know?” says Johnnie, with the kind of a grin that makes you mad.

“Somebody to see him on business,” says Catty.

“What kind of business?”

“Is he in?” says Catty.

“He is, but you don’t think a couple o’ kids like you can bother him, do you? He’d throw you out by the seat of the pants.”

“Hired to tell folks what he’d do?” says Catty.

Johnnie kind of scowled and didn’t think of anything to say back.

“We’re here on business,” says Catty, “and if you know what’s good for you you’ll tell Mr. Manning so. It’s for him to say whether he’ll see us, and not you.”

“You skedaddle out of here,” says Johnnie, getting off his stool.

Catty grinned at him, but it wasn’t a friendly grin. I got to know it after a while, and whenever he grinned like that I knew he was ready and willing to fight, and that he would fight until he couldn’t see or hear or stand.

“Maybe you kin kick me out,” says he, “and maybe you can’t. You don’t look like much of a kicker. But I kin tell you that you’ll git mussed tryin’ and there’ll be a rumpus in this office that Mr. Manning will hear—and he’ll come bustin’ out to find out what’s the trouble. Then where’ll you be? Kicked out yourself. Jest come right on and try it.”

“Git out!” says Johnnie, but he didn’t come any nearer.

“Are you going to tell Mr. Manning I want to see him?

“No. Git!”

Catty walked up to the rail and looked at Johnnie a second. Then what did he do but open his mouth and holler, “Mr. Manning!” as loud as he could. Johnnie looked half scared to death, and I made sure the door was where I could use it prompt. “Mr. Manning!” yelled Catty again.

The door of the private office smashed open and there stood Mr. Manning, scowling like all-git-out.

“What’s this racket? What’s this racket?” he says, sharp and angry.

“This boy—” Johnnie started to say, but Catty broke right in:

“Does this feller know everybody you want to see or don’t want to see?” he asked, and he wasn’t frightened a bit. He spoke right up, like he was a grown man—not impudent, but kind of severe.

Mr. Manning almost jumped. For a second he didn’t know what to say, and then, because he was so surprised, I guess, he didn’t roar or chase us out, but just answered. “No,” he says.

“I thought so,” says Catty, “so when he wouldn’t tell you I wanted to see you I thought I’d tell you myself.”

“What’s this, Hooper?” says Mr. Manning.

“These boys came in here—and I didn’t want you disturbed. I tried to chase them away.”

“Did this boy say he wanted to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ask him why?”

“He said business.”

“Then what do you mean by not telling me? How do you know he isn’t bringing an important message from somebody? After this when people come here and ask for me you consult me before you send them away. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” says Johnnie.

“It isn’t a message,” says Catty. “It’s business, my own business, and I want to talk to you a few minutes about it.”

“Come in here,” says Mr. Manning, “but if you’re wasting my time you’ll wish you’d stayed out.”

We went in, and I was so surprised I couldn’t have spoken if I was paid for it.

“Now what?” says Mr. Manning, sharplike.

“Have you let the job of painting your new warehouse?” says Catty.

I almost dropped in my tracks.

“No,” says Mr. Manning.

“I’ve come to apply for it,” says Catty. “I can guarantee a first-class job with the right kind of bossing. It will be hustled through as fast as anybody can hustle it, and we’ll use only the best materials.”

“I’ll say this for you, young man, you can speak up and not waste any words. Are you going to do the painting yourself?”

“Of course not. The best painters that can be had.”

“Who are you speaking for?”

“Myself.”

“What?”

“Myself,” says Catty again, kind of stiff and formal. “I calc’late to boss the job and see it is done right. I calc’late to hire both the local painters, and you know they are good men. My father is a first-class painter. I’m willing to take this job cheap to get established here, because we are going into business here and expect to live here. I guarantee satisfaction.”

“Well, I swanny!” says Mr. Manning. He sat down and didn’t act mad nor offer to throw us out. “Sit down,” says he. “I want to know more about this.... You’re young Moore, aren’t you?” says he. “What have you got to do with it?”

“Nothing,” says I, “except that Catty is a friend of mine and Dad’s, and I come along.”

“Do you recommend this young man?” says he.

“Yes,” says I, “and so will Dad.” I knew Dad would.

“What’s your proposition?” says Mr. Manning to Catty.

“I’ll do this job for cost—exactly what it costs, and ten cents on each dollar besides for my profit. If you want to you can buy the paints and supplies and pay me the profit when it’s all done. Then you’ll know you’re getting a fair deal.”

“Who are you, anyhow?”

“Catty Atkins,” says he.

“Where’s your shop?”

“Haven’t one yet.”

“Where do you live?”

“Nowheres—yet.”

“I can’t give you such a job as this until I know something about you,” says Mr. Manning.

“Dad and me, we jest come to town,” says Catty. “We always been shiftless, but I got to be respectable now and make folks respect me. I’ve made Dad agree to live here, and he’s got to work. We hain’t never done nothin’ but be shiftless and traipse around since Mother died.”

“Tramps, eh?”

“I calc’late you’d call us that.”

“Expect me to trust a couple of tramps with this job?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because,” says Catty, “you know I mean business. You do know it, and you know I’ll give you a good job or bust.”

“Huh!...” says Mr. Manning. “Where’s your equipment? Your ladders and staging and brushes and paints?”

“Give me this job and I’ll have ’em. I’ll start work here Monday. This is Thursday.”

“I’ll be jiggered!” says Mr. Manning. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

Mr. Manning scowled at Catty, and I thought it was coming then, but in a minute he spoke. “Young man,” says he, “if you can be here with proper equipment and workmen at seven o’clock Monday morning, you can have the job. If a kid like you has the crust to tackle a thing like this, and, without a cent, can scrape together equipment and workmen, I’ll make a bet you can do the job. Satisfy you?”

“Yes.”

“Git!” says Mr. Manning.

“Monday at seven,” says Catty, and we walked out.

“There,” says he, “that’s done. Now I hain’t got anything to do but git together the ladders and brushes and paints and workmen to do the job.”

It looked to me like that was quite a chore, but Catty didn’t seem discouraged any. “We got to git busy,” says he.