Now, Chub, he knowed a heap about handlin’ a gun, and I reckon he’d pass as a liv’ry-stable keeper, but he didn’t know much about women. So, when he went down to ast the widda fer the second time, he put his foot in it by bein’ kinda short t’ little Willie.
“Say, kid,” he says, “you locate over in that rockin’-chair yonder. Young uns of you’ age should be saw and not heerd.”
Mrs. Bridger, she sit right up, and her eye-winkers just snapped. “Mister Flannagan,” she Says, “I’m feard you’re wastin’ you’ time a-callin’ here. If ever I marry again, it’s goin’ t’ be a man that’s fond of childern.”
Wal, ta-ta, Chub!
And, behind, there was the widda at the winda, all eyes fer that sand-pile.
We never knowed what she said to Dutchy’s brother, August. But he come back to town lookin’ madder’n a wet hen. “Huh!” he says, “I don’t vant her nohow. She couldn’t vork. She’s pretty fer nice, all right, but she’s nichts fer stoudt.”
When ole stingy Curry tried his luck over, he took his lead from Chub’s experience. Seems he put one arm ’round the kid, and then he said no man could kick about havin’ to adopt Willie, and he knowed that with Mrs. Bridger it was “love me, love my dawg.” Then he tacked on that the boy was a nice little feller, and likely didn’t eat much.
“And long’s I ain’t a-goin’ to marry you,” says the widda, “why, just think–you won’t have to feed Willie at all!”
But the next day we laughed on the other side of our face. I went down to Mrs. Bridger’s, the sheriff trailin’, (he balked half-way from the sand-pile to the door, this time, and sit down on a bucket t’ play he was Willie’s steam-injine), and I found that the little woman had been cryin’ turrible.
“What’s the matter?” I ast.