“If I were a boy,” says Dad, “and wanted something very much, I’ll bet I’d get it.”
“You can’t steal the respect of people that don’t know you off’n the clothes-line,” says Catty, stubborn-like.
“Isn’t part of your trouble that you never let folks know you? You never stay any place long enough to let them get acquainted.”
“Nobody wants to get acquainted.”
“How do you know? Didn’t we want to get acquainted? And there are thousands of other folks just like us.”
“I hain’t never seen anybody like you, Mr. Moore.”
“Well,” says Dad, “I won’t pester you about it, but think it over. If you should decide to change your mind and not let Mrs. Gage have her way and drive you out of town, why, you’ve got some friends here to start with. Hasn’t he, Mother?”
“Yes,” said Mother. She didn’t say any more, but just that one word. You knew she meant it, and that was enough.
We all got up from the table and I was dragging Catty away, when he stopped and turned to Mother.
“I—I enjoyed the dinner a heap, Mrs. Moore,” said he, “but what done me most good was jest a-lookin’ at you. I calc’late it must be awful nice to have a mother—and her as dog-gone perty as you be.”