There was quite a lot of talk around town about Jack Phillips coming into business with the Atkinses and about how they managed to find something to do in spite of what the women thought about it. It made the folks that didn’t like Catty and his father more determined than ever to get rid of them, and you could hear women and men talking it over almost any time if you were to listen. More than one woman came to my mother to complain about my going around with Catty so much, and a couple of men spoke to Dad, but they never did it more than once. I heard Dad say to one man:
“Look here, Mr. Withers, my son plays with the Atkins boy because I want him to. I’ve studied that boy, and if he isn’t worth half a dozen of the ordinary kids in this town then I’m willing to pick up and move away. Catty’s got brains and ambition and he’s aboveboard, with nothing sneaking about him. You say you won’t let your boy play with mine if the Atkins boy is around. Well, I’m satisfied. If anything is wrong with Catty Atkins, then I hope Wee-wee catches it.”
I guess Jim Bockers was beginning to get sick of his bargain about this time. I know of a dozen painting or paperhanging jobs that Catty worked up and made a bid on. His bid every time was just a little less than it would actually cost to do the work—and then the folks would go to Jim and Jim would have to live up to his advertisement and do the work for even less. It was rotten business, and Catty said he couldn’t last long.
One day Catty says to me: “I wisht you’d drop in to Jim Bockers’s when you get a chance and sort of find out how he’s gettin’ along. We’re making some money off his rent, but he’s ruined the paperhangin’ business. If it wasn’t for that stock-farm and a few outside jobs that part of our business would be dead. We ought to be makin’ twice what we are, and if anything comes of this Kinderhook boom we ought to almost git rich. Jest kind of sound Jim out.”
So I dropped in that afternoon. Jim had a nice shop with lots of wall-paper in rolls all put away in little square pigeonholes, and shelves of paint and brushes, and a shop full of ladders and things. It was a high-toned place, all right, but Jim didn’t look very happy.
“Howdy, Mr. Bockers?” says I. “How’s business?”
“Lots of business,” says Jim, as gloomy as an undertaker.
“You ought to be grinnin’, then,” says I.
“Hain’t no money into it,” says Jim.
“How’s that?” says I.