“Moral?” murmured Toby vaguely.
“Yes, moral.”
But Sandy saw a chance of restoring his fallen prestige, and promptly seized upon it.
“Moral,” he said, beaming with self-satisfaction, “is handin’ a lesson all wrop up in fancy words so’s to set folks cussin’ like mad they can’t understand it, an’ hatin’ themselves when they’re told its meanin’. Now, if I was goin’ to show you what a blamed idjut you was without jest sayin’ so––”
“Shut up!” cried Bill. And without waiting for a reply he read on, “‘––with discretion. If you treat kids proper they mostly raise themselves, which is jest Natur’. Don’t worry yourself, ’less they fall into a swill-barrel, or do some ridiculous stunt o’ that natur’––an’ don’t worry them. Ther’ ain’t no sense to anybody goin’ around with notions they ken flap their wings, an’ cluck like a broody hen; an’ scratchin’ worms is positive ridiculous. Help ’em when they need help, otherwise let ’em fall around till they knock sense into theirselves. Jest let ’em be kids as long as Natur’ fancies, so’s when they git growed up, which they’re goin’ to do anyways, they’ll likely make elegant men an’ women. Ef you set ’em under glass cases they’ll sure get fixed into things what glass cases is made to hold––that’s images. I don’t guess I kin tell you nothin’ more ’bout kids, seein’ I ain’t a mother, but jest a pot-wolloper.’”
Bill folded the paper as he finished reading, and silently handed it across to the secretary. Somehow he seemed impressed with the information the paper contained. The whole meeting seemed impressed. Even Sandy had no comment to offer, while Toby resorted to biting his forefinger and gazing stupidly at the opposite wall. It was Sunny who finally broke the silence.
“Guess I’ll jest writ’ out the chief points fer Zip’s guidance?” he asked.
Bill nodded.
“That’s it, sure,” he agreed. “Jest the chief points. Then you’ll hand it to Zip to-morrer mornin’, an’, ef he needs it, you can explain wot he ain’t wise to. I’d like to say right here that this hash-slinger has got savvee. Great big savvee, an’ a heap of it. I ain’t a hell of a lot on the kid racket, they mostly make me sick to death. In a manner o’ speakin’, I don’t care a cuss for Zip nor his kids. Ef they drown theirselves in a swill-bar’l it’s his funeral, an’ their luck, an’ it don’t cut no ice with me. But, cuss me, ef I ken stand to see a low-down skunk like this yer James come it over a feller-citizen o’ Suffering Creek, an’ it’s our duty to see Zip gits thro’. I’m sore on James. Sore as hell. I ain’t no Bible-thumpin’, mush-hearted, push-me-amongst-the-angels feller anyways. An’ you boys has got to git right on to that, quick.” He glared round at his friends defiantly, as though daring them to do otherwise. But as nobody gave a sign of doubt on the subject, he had no alternative but to continue. “I’m jest sore on James an’––” He hesitated for the fraction of a second, but went on almost immediately. “––ther’ may come a time when the play gits busy. Get me? Wal,” as Sandy and Sunny nodded assent, and Toby sat all eyes for the speaker, “this yere Trust is a goin’ concern, an’, I take it, we mean business. So, though we ain’t runnin’ a noospaper, maybe we’ll need a fightin’ editor after all. If we need a fightin’ editor we’ll sure need a fightin’ staff. That’s jest logic. I’ll ast you right here, is you boys that fightin’ staff? If so, guess I’m fightin’ editor. How?”
His eyes were on Sunny Oak. And that individual’s unwashed face broadened into a cheerful grin.