“Well, my gosh!” says Hashknife foolish-like. “Well, whatcha know about that?”
“Brother,” says the old man, “was you serious about takin’ Buddy?”
“You’re a preacher,” says Hashknife, “and I admire preachers a heap, but just you try takin’ him away from me. Ain’t nobody sayin’ I can’t take him, is there?”
Glory looks at Hashknife and then down at the kid.
“I’m glad for Buddy,” says she.
“Buddy glad,” says the kid.
“Well, my gosh!” gasps Hashknife. “Don’t this beat —— and high water?”
Willer Crick never made no foolish breaks when we went up with Eph Sillman’s old wagon and team and brought Eph’s body back with us. Me and Hashknife went up there and took it—that’s all. They’d moved him off behind the sidewalk and put a old blanket over him. The store was closed and there wasn’t man, woman nor child in sight.
Glory said they wouldn’t bury him, and I reckon she was right. Me and Hashknife dug two graves and Hashknife built two boxes. It’s awful to have to plant folks thataway, but we done our dangdest to make it look right.
The old man kind a broke down over the sermon, which was natural, and Hashknife finished it up. Glory was there. It was her brother, and I reckon she thought a lot of him. Buddy didn’t know what it meant, but he bawled anyway, which made a real pleasant party all the way around. I reckon the old man was kinda loco over it all, ’cause he went out, got on his mule and pulled his freight.