“You bet!”
“Told me the other day you couldn’t.”
“Well, I’ve most forgot. Pap started to learn me, then he said he reckoned I was more cut out for makin’ puddin’s, but he learned me to write my name.”
“Well, if you ever grow rich, you’ll have to do a lot more than write your name.”
“Which way?”
“You’ll have to write checks and letters, and, what’s more, you’ll have to be able to read them.”
“Well, I reckon,” said the philosophical Jude, “it’ll be time enough to bother about that when I’m rich—and seems to me I’ll never be rich with them two diddling Satan same as they’ve done.”
“Oh, yes, you will; you are going to be rich some day, as rich as I am. I’m a fortune teller. Show us your hand.”
Jude held out a hand, and Ratcliffe examined the palm where the lines were few but straight and clear cut. It was a beautiful little hand, despite the hard work it had done, full of character and vigor, and expressing kindliness and honesty and capability.
Ratcliffe had an instinct for hands. A hand could attract or repulse him just as powerfully as a face; more so, perhaps, for a hand never lies.