"Oh, the fools!" he says to himself; but I didn't know who he meant, and I was pretty sure he must mean me.
All the while we were having breakfast, he talked with me. When it was over, and he'd paid the bill—I tried my best to see how much it was, so as to tell Lena Curtsy, but I couldn't—he turned around to me and he says:
"The grass is not wet this morning. It's high summer. Will you walk with me up to the top of that hill over there in the field? I want to show you the whole world."
"Sure," I says. "But you can't see much past Twiney's pasture from that little runt of a hill."
We climbed the fence. He put his hand on a post and vaulted the wire as good as the boys could have done. When he turned to help me, I was just doing the same thing. Then it come over me that maybe an author wouldn't think that was ladylike.
"I always do them that way," I says, kind of to explain.
"Is there any other way?" says he.
"No!" says I, and we both laughed. It was nice to laugh with him, and it was the first time we'd done it together.
The field was soft and shiny. There was pretty cobwebs. Everything looked new and glossy.