“But he’s got yer clothes.”
“I don’t care,” cried the other boy, “if ’e ’as—’e ain’t got me.”
“But y’ can’t go about like that all day.”
“Yes I can,” said Tom. “I kin go about like this for a week—I kin go about like it altogether. I’d rather.”
“But you’ll get run in.”
“I don’t care,” cried Tom. “I’d rather be run in than whaled with the buckle end of that strap on me bare ’ide.”
“You’d better go back an’ ’ave it over,” urged Dave.
“No,” replied Tom; “I’ll be sawed in ’alf with a rusty cross-cut saw furst. I’m full of him. ’E’s always on to me. I got to get up furst thing in the mornin’ an’ work the punt. I got to fetch wood and water, an’ bile the beef, an’ wash the clothes, an’ milk the cow, an’ feed the hens, an’ go to school, an’ then in the evenin’s I got to read the noospaper for ’im. I got to work the garden an’ hoe the damn corn, and get whaled reg’lar. Flesh an’ blood,” he concluded, solemnly, “is flesh an’ blood, an’ it can’t be any more. I’m chock full up of it.”
“So am I,” said the red-headed boy, developing a grievance also. “I’m chock full o’ mine, too. He’s worse nor yours, because he’s only a stepfather. I got to get up in the mornin’ afore daylight an’ round up the cows, an’ help milk, an’ fetch the cans into the factory, an’ I get whaled if I ain’t back in time. Then I got to go and cut sorghum an’ pull pumpkins. Then I got to get the cows up again in the evenin’s and milk an’ ’ump cans, an’ round up the calves, an’ light fires to keep the mosquitoes off ’em, an’ the ole man ’e whales me, an’ the ole woman she’s worse, an’,” he concluded, emphatically, “there ain’t nothin’ in it, hanged if there is.”
“I’m goin’ to run away,” said Tom Pagdin.