"'What's the matter, old man?' I says, and he bursts out worse than ever.
"'My daddy whipped me!' he says, and I seen right there he was touched. He was a hundred years old if he was a day and his back-bone was sticking through like a fish's, and of course he didn't have no daddy; but I was kind of sorry, the way he took on, and I gits down and pats him on the head.
"'Well, don't cry,' I says, 'what did he whip you for?'
"'Fer throwing stones at grand-pap!' he says, and cries like his heart would break.
"'Aw hell,' I says, 'you ain't got no grand-pap!'
"'Yes I have!' he sobs, 'he's right up in that house!' And he points to one of these dwellings.
"'Well, don't cry,' I says, 'mebbe I can fix it up for you. Is your daddy up there, too?'
"'Yes,' he says, 'he's in that first room, gitting ready to trim his corns.'
"Well, of course I knowed he didn't have no dad—or at least it didn't seem possible—but jest to snoop into things and git to look around I went up the trail to the house. It was one jest like this, with the doors and windows sealed, but when I looked in there was an old, old man, sharpening a butcher-knife across his shin. He was so old and dried up there warn't no skin on his shin bone and his back was bent plumb to his knees. By grab, I was skeered—it didn't look natural—but of course I never let on.