“Well,” said Jessamine, “there's a man coming to-day to mend the government telegraph-line between Drybone and McKinney. Maybe he would take you back as far as Box Elder, if you want to go very much. Shall I ask him?”
Billy was disappointed at this cordial seconding of his mood. He did not make a direct rejoinder. “I guess I'll go outside now,” said he, with a threat in his tone.
She continued mending his stockings. Finished ones lay rolled at one side of her chair, and upon the other were more waiting her attention.
“And I'm going to turn back hand-springs on top of all the freight-cars,” he stated, more loudly.
She indulged again in merriment, laughing sweetly at him, and without restraint.
“And I'm sick of what you all keep a-saying to me!” he shouted. “Just as if I was a baby.”
“Why, Billy, who ever said you were a baby?”
“All of you do. Honey, and Lin, and you, now, and everybody. What makes you say 'that's nine times, Billy; oh, Billy, that's ten times,' if you don't mean I'm a baby? And you laugh me off, just like they do, and just like I was a regular baby. You won't tell me—”
“Billy, listen. Did nobody ever ask you something you did not want to tell them?”
“That's not a bit the same, because—because—because I treat 'em square and because it's not their business. But every time I ask anybody 'most anything, they say I'm not old enough to understand; and I'll be ten soon. And it is my business when it's about the kind of a mother I'm agoing to have. Suppose I quit acting square, an' told 'em, when they bothered me, they weren't young enough to understand! Wish I had. Guess I will, too, and watch 'em step around.” For a moment his mind dwelt upon this, and he whistled a revengeful strain.