“We stop,” says I. “It says it on this paper, but it didn’t need to. We’re stopped, anyhow, by what comes next.”
“What does come next?”
“‘Ninety degrees in the shade,’” says I.
“Perty hot,” says he.
“Does it mean we got to look for a spot that’s as warm as that?”
“Don’t b’lieve it,” says he. “No spot’s n-ninety degrees in the shade around here always. To be any good for what Mr. Wigglesworth’s got in mind, a spot would always have to be ninety in the shade. Or else there’d have to be somethin’ to tell just when to look. See? If he’s given directions to find somethin’, I think those directions are good every d-day and every hour of the day.”
“That’s l-likely,” says I. “If we only knew he was givin’ directions,” says I, “we could git along better.”
“As for me,” says he, “I’m s-s-sure of it.”
“That settles it, then,” says I, gettin’ a little sarcastic.
While we were arguing about it there was a clanging and banging out in the yard like a dozen kids were knocking tin pans together, and we heard somebody set up a holler.