“You can’t do it,” says the Whizzer.
“Go in and take him,” says uncle Moze to the other men.
“Because this is my house,” says the Whizzer.
I swallowed my breath when he said that.
“I wish you’d shut the door,” he says; “and since to-morrow is Christmas, and I don’t want to harbor any ill-will, you can shut it behind instead of in front of you. I’m Steele Pedicord, this boy’s father as you might all know by looking at me.”
Even cousin Andy Sanders didn’t jump any more than I did, but I jumped for gladness, and seemed like he jumped for something else.
“I’m appointed guerdeen to the children,” he says, “and I don’t want any impudent talk from a stranger.”
“You pretend you don’t know me, Andy Sanders,” says the Whizzer, “but I always knew you. You expected to settle on their land, while Moze and his wife pillaged their goods. I didn’t grow up with you for nothing.”
“Steele Pedicord died when that boy was a year old,” says aunt Ibby, and she looked so awful and so big I could hardly bear to watch her. “He was killed by the Indians on his way from Californy, after he sent his money home.”