“Where y' goin'?” he asks.
“Nowheres particular,” says Marthy. “Just walkin' out to git the air.”
“So'm I,” says he, and then he says, sort of bluffin', “I ain't lost.”
“Yes you are, Bobby,” I says, severe as I could, “and if you know what's good for a kid about your size you'd better turn right 'round and scoot for home.”
He looked at me as if he would like to know who I was, to be bossin' him.
“Ho!” he says, “You ain't my pa. I don't have to do what you say! I won't go home for you!”
Marthy was bendin' over him in a second.
“Bobby,” she says, coaxing-like, “do you know what your folks is going to have for dinner?”
“No'm,” he says, as polite as you please.
“I do,” says the little woman. “Ice cream. And if you git lost you won't git home in time to git any.”