I shook my finger. "Can I say exactly what that woman said?"
"Yes."
"Well," says I, imitating Mrs. Gray, voice and all—voice like a horse-fiddle, head stuck front, and elbows wide apart—"well," I says, "she looked up the tree and saw Sandy. 'Sandy Gra-a-y!' she hollers; 'Sandy Gray! You one-eyed, warp-sided, nateral-born fool! What you mean, playing with that Bill Saunders? You come in this house quick, afore you git you' other gol-damn eye knocked out!'"
Mother dropped her sewing and had a fit on the spot. That made me mad for a minute. Then I laughed, too.
"Don't give up, Will," says mother. "It takes time to learn to do the right thing. You kiss your mother and forget all about it—you didn't want Mrs. Gray to pay you for amusing Sandy, anyway, did you?"
"Of course not," I replies. "But she needn't of.... Darn him, he was hanging a cat!"
Mother went off the handle again.
"Perhaps you like people who hang cats?" I says, very scornful, the sore spot hurting again.
"Now, Will, don't be silly!" says mother. "Try again; think how funny it would have seemed to you, if it had happened to any one else."
"That's so," I admits, my red hair smoothing down. "Well, I'll try again; but no more Sandy Grays."