“Calc’late this gun ain’t much good.”
“Is it a reg’lar gun,” says he, “or jest a kind of a cap pistol?”
That made me mad, so I says, sarcastic: “Naw, this ain’t a gun. This is a pan of mush and milk.”
“Maybe,” says he, kind of slow and solemn, like he was thinking it over mighty careful—“maybe you could hit things better with it if it was mush and milk. It would spatter more.”
“Say,” says I, “who are you, anyhow?”
“I wa’n’t brung up to give anythin’ away free,” says he, “but I’ll trade you—my name for yourn.”
“It’s a trade,” says I. “Mine’s Moore. Mostly the kids call me Wee-wee.”
“Mine’s Atkins,” says he, “and folks call me Catty because I can climb like one.”
“One what?” says I.
“Mud turtle,” says he; “that’s plain. C-a-t-t-y—mud turtle. Spells it every time where I come from.”