“Good. Seven times six?”
“Forty-two, sir.”
“Correct, John.”
He did not seem to be much interested in my correct and prompt answers; kept on looking at his paper. Finally he looked at me and said: “And eight times thirteen, John?”
I was stuck again. This one froze me stiff. I got mad, red in the face. I took pencil and paper out of my pockets, figured it out, and give him the result. It seemed that he was taking advantage of me. Nobody at school had ever asked me that question. I felt wronged. I thought of my money and my two big horse pistols. If I was to be treated in this way I would take my money and pistols and go away where I could get a square deal. And if I did not get a square deal, I’d take it.
Father looked at the paper I gave him. “Why, you have it right, John. That’s good, very good.” He was stroking his beard thoughtfully, and I could not tell whether he was smiling or making a face.
Vacation was almost over. I needed new books for the coming season and spoke to father about them one night.
“Never mind them now. We will see about them later. We are going away, going to Kansas City. I have been promoted after all these years.”
“But I will lose my job,” I demurred.
“I’ll get you another job. Don’t worry. Do you want a regular job, working all day, or would you like to go to school some more?”