“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.