“It’s yourn!” The ole man put his hands to his haid.
“Also,” I says, rattlin’ the little stack of twenties in my right-hand britches pocket, “I’m fixed t’ git some cows; fifty ’r so–a start, boss, just a start.”
“How’d you do it! Why, I’m plumb knocked silly!”
“But you’ ain’t the man to go back on you’ word, Sewell. I can take good keer of Mace now–and I want to be friends with the man that’s goin’ to be my paw.”
He begun to look at me, awful steady and sober, and he looked and he looked–like as if he hadn’t just savvied. Next, he sorta talked to hisself. “My little Macie,” he kept sayin’; “my little Macie.”
She put her arms ’round him then, and he clean broke down. “Aw, I cain’t lose my little gal,” he says. “I don’t keer anythin’ about land ’r cattle. But Macie–she’s all I got left. Don’t take her away from me!”
So that was it! (And I’d said that all Sewell keered fer was money.) “Boss,” I says, “you mean you’d like us to live here–with you?”
He come over to me, tremblin’ like he had the ague. “Would y’, Cupid?” he ast. “I’d never interfere with you two none. Would y’?”
“Aw, daddy!” says Mace, holdin’ to him tight.
“Why, bless you’ heart, Sewell,” I answers, “what do I want to live any other place fer? Mace is what I want–just Mace. And, say! you take back you’ little ole crick-bottom.”