"Now—now—don't git riled, little Cap—why, haint I tuk th' best care uv yo' as I know how—an' every month after I've paid th' men, don't I bring yo'-all half o' whuts leftin'—every month since Lem's bin gone I han' over yore part reg'ler—an' last month wus better 'n any—why, I give yo' fifty-one dollars last month, Buddy—whut yo' got to pester yo'—eh?"
At Hatfield's first words, the boy had settled back in his chair, plainly disgusted.
"Whut do ail yo' anyways, Buddy—eh?"
When Buddy straightened up again, Johnse relaxed in his seat and expressed a willingness to listen by plucking his beard with two fingers and a glint of amusement in his small eyes.
"Johnse Hatfield," began the boy vigorously, "ef yo'-all wusn't honest, I 'low we-uns wouldn't a hed yo' heah—thet ain't whut I'm aimin' at—hit hain't—yo' alers treated me like pap ded—yo' alers ac'ed like a dad t' me—only one thing, Johnse Hatfield—jest one thing—I air a tellin' yo'."
He had slid out of his chair and was now holding an admonitory finger up to Hatfield's face.
"Only one thing, Johnse Hatfield—an' yo' done me pesky on thet, yo' ded."
Hatfield regarded the end of Buddy's finger for a moment—then softly inquired:
"How ded I do yo' pesky, Buddy?"
"Hain't I th' onlyest Lutts?" he fairly yelled, falling back a step, with head tilted backward, and an unmistakable note of pride trembling through his piping voice.