"He had eight kids, you see, and he used to say a man couldn't be responsible for more than six. Two kids, he used to say, were a blessing, four a care, six a burden, and eight an affliction, and no man is responsible for his afflictions."
"I wish I had some relatives," said Billy wistfully. "There are only daddy and I. Don't you like relatives, some one who belongs to you?"
"Father used to say that relatives were an affliction, and he supposed a man had to have afflictions to make a man of him, but if he had had any influence with Providence, he would have preferred not to be a man."
"Who was your father?" asked Billy.
"A minister," answered the Watermelon, clasping his hands behind his head and staring up at the interlaced boughs overhead. "A country minister. He used to say that there was just one thing in this world more pitiful than a country minister, and that was his wife."
"Why," cried Billy, "the papers said he used to be a policeman."
"I thought you didn't read the papers?"
"I don't, just the Sunday supplements," said Billy frankly, as one to whom his intellectual development is of minor importance.
The Watermelon wheeled over with a laugh and caught her hand. "Hang dad!" he exclaimed. "Where'd you get your name?"
He drew himself up on the log beside her, as near as he dared. He wanted to put his arm around the slim waist, but decided that he had better not.