“Because she's my beau, too,” came the prompt answer. “I'm her beau because she's my beau; I guess that's plenty reason! I'll get married to her as soon as I get my store running nice.”
Penrod looked upon him darkly, but, for the moment, held his peace.
“Married!” jeered Sam Williams. “Married to Marjorie Jones! You're the only boy I ever heard say he was going to get married. I wouldn't get married for—why, I wouldn't for—for——” Unable to think of any inducement the mere mention of which would not be ridiculously incommensurate, he proceeded: “I wouldn't do it! What you want to get married for? What do married people do, except just come home tired, and worry around and kind of scold? You better not do it, M'rice; you'll be mighty sorry.”
“Everybody gets married,” stated Maurice, holding his ground.
“They gotta.”
“I'll bet I don't!” Sam returned hotly. “They better catch me before they tell ME I have to. Anyway, I bet nobody has to get married unless they want to.”
“They do, too,” insisted Maurice. “They GOTTA!”
“Who told you?”
“Look at what my own papa told me!” cried Maurice, heated with argument. “Didn't he tell me your papa had to marry your mamma, or else he never'd got to handle a cent of her money? Certumly, people gotta marry. Everybody. You don't know anybody over twenty years old that isn't married—except maybe teachers.”
“Look at policemen!” shouted Sam triumphantly. “You don't s'pose anybody can make policemen get married, I reckon, do you?”