“Hush,” warned the other, “I can’t let you talk to me in this way, Boy. Remember who I am. I won’t have it, I say.”
“Well, I can’t see how you’re goin’ to help it. I want to tell you somethin’, Mr. Simpson, and you’ve got to listen. Don’t you move or by God I’ll sic Joe on to you. I’m goin’ to tell you again what I told you before. Ma’s sick in bed and maybe she ain’t never goin’ to get up no more. I told you that, remember?”
“Yes, you told me that—well?”
“Well, she’s been thinkin’ that I’ve been to school and you and me know I haven’t. I couldn’t stay in your school and live, but I was willin’ to take the hick’ry or anythin’ you said, if you wouldn’t tell her.”
The teacher was silent.
“Pup,” said the boy, “see that he answers up better.”
The dog growled, and the man spoke quickly.
“I was only doing my duty.”
“And it’s your duty to tell a dyin’ mother that her boy’s goin’ to hell—I say goin’ to hell, and her so near the other place? Do you call that duty?” demanded the boy bitterly.
The moon floated further into the open, lighting up the two; the boy erect and accusing with the shaggy dog beside him, and the tall man before them in an attitude half defiant, half ashamed.