“Dad’s fishin’,” says he, and off we went to the bayou, where, after a few minutes, we came across a man a-sitting on a log with a long cane pole in his hands. I couldn’t see him move so much as his eye-winkers. He was kind of long and narrow, and whiskers that was a sort of red and yellow, mixed, stuck out around his face like the spokes of a wheel.
“Who’s he?” said Mr. Atkins, pointing very sudden at me
What he had on his head might have been a hat and it might have been part of a horse-blanket, and it might have been a busted waste-basket. It might have been almost anything, but the thing it looked like least was a hat. He had a nose with a hook in it and a drooping end. Most of his face was nose. That was about all I saw of him first off. Then Catty spoke to him and he turned around slow.
“Howdy, Sonny!” says he, and smiled. I saw then that his eyes were brown, with wrinkles all around them. Not laughing wrinkles, but the kind you get from the sun shining in your eyes. I never saw a smile just like his smile. It was kind of patient, and kind of glad, and kind of thoughtful, and kind of sorry—all mixed in—and right off I liked him.
“Who’s he?” said Mr. Atkins, pointing very sudden at me.
“Wee-wee Moore,” says Catty. “Been to his house to dinner.”
“Eh?” says Mr. Atkins, opening his eyes wide.
“Right in the house, at the table, with him and his Pa and Ma.”
“No! I swan to man! Wa’n’t you nigh scairt to death?”