“Look you! Jehoshaphat,” Timothy demanded; “is you in debt?”
“I is.”
“An’ is you ever been out o’ debt?”
“I isn’t.”
“How come you t’ know?”
“Why,” Jehoshaphat explained, “Mister Wull told me so. An’ whatever,” he qualified, “father was in debt when he died, an’ Mister Wull told me I ought t’ pay. Father was my father,” Jehoshaphat argued, “an’ I ’lowed I would pay. For,” he concluded, “’twas right.”
“Is he ever give you an account?”
“Well, no—no, he haven’t. But it wouldn’t do no good, for I’ve no learnin’, an’ can’t read.”
“No,” Timothy burst out, “an’ he isn’t give nobody no accounts.”
“Well,” Jehoshaphat apologized, “he’ve a good deal on his mind, lookin’ out for the wants of us folk. He’ve a wonderful lot o’ brain labor. He’ve all them letters t’ write t’ St. John’s, an’ he’ve got a power of ’rithmetic t’ do, an’ he’ve got the writin’ in them big books t’ trouble un, an’—”