“That’s bad, Dad, but we got to risk it.”
“Besides, I hain’t got no paint-brush. Can’t paint without a brush.”
“I’ll git you a brush.”
Mr. Atkins stared at the water and waggled his head. “Looks to me like you was goin’ to crowd me right into this paintin’ job. What’s the idee?”
“You and me is goin’ to be respectable. You’re a-goin’ to have a store and hire men, and maybe wear a silk hat, and we’re goin’ to have money and a house, and go to church, and have folks invite us to dinner, and all sich.”
“I snummy!... What’s that about hirin’ men? Like the sound of it. Why can’t we start out like that? No need of my paintin’ if we kin hire men to do it for me.”
“We’ve got to begin small. What we make on this job we’ll put into stock and git a start. In a little while you won’t have to do anythin’ but boss and look after the work, and maybe paint a little on jobs that’s too good to trust to anybody else.”
“Hope we don’t git many of them kind of jobs,” said Mr. Atkins, mighty sadlike.... “Wa-al, Sonny, if you’re sot on your ol’ Dad a-fallin’ off a ladder with the colic, why, you go ahead, and I’ll tumble for you as often as I kin till I wear out. Maybe we won’t git no job, though,” he said, with what looked to me like a hopeful look.
“We got one—and a big one. Start in Monday. All I got to do is git brushes and ladders and paints and sich.”
“That all you need to git?”