Hatfield perceived that to argue with him now would be like taking a bone from a starved dog.
"Why, Buddy!" placated Johnse, "ded I ever 'low yo' warn't?"
"But yo' don't think I'm fittin'—yo' don't—yo' don't think I'm fittin'!" he shouted hotly.
Mentally Johnse told himself that it was time to launch what he held in reserve and end Buddy's turbulent tirade, which was carrying the boy to the verge of distress. Hatfield's attachment to old Cap Lutts had been fused with a ligature of fealty little short of blind idolization, and it did his soul good to watch this outburst of virility and aggression that flamed up in the boy, reflecting the blood and stamina of the old man. And Hatfield loved this little human tiger that had come to-day to arraign him with the iron gusto of a born ruler and all the plenipotent fire of a vice king and despot.
"I hain't fittin'—I hain't fittin'—be I?" he reiterated vociferously.
"Shore, yo're fittin', Buddy. Course yo're a little feller yet,—shore yo're fittin'—ef ary hillbilly says yo' hain't—why, I'll turn his face down out o' these mountains, I will—yo' never heard me say yo' wusn't fittin', Buddy, eh?"
"Naw, but leastways yo' ac' hit Johnse Hatfield—yo' ac' hit—yo' do. You won't listen t' me."
"I alers listen t' yo', boy," contradicted Johnse quickly.
"Well, yo' listen, but yo' don't heed—yo' don't," he stormed.
"Whut do yo'-all want me to do?" petitioned Johnse naïvely.