“’Cause I won’t let him,” says he. “I’m goin’ to make it. Got to. Be more fun.” “Fun!” says Mr. Atkins. “D’you call workin’ and makin’ money fun? Strange idee of fun. Fun’s somethin’ you laugh at and enjoy. Who ever heard of anybody laughin’ at work?” “And we can’t live here,” says Catty. “Why?” says Mr. Atkins. “’Tain’t respectable. Houses without no winders into ’em hain’t respectable, and folks looks up to furniture and carpets.” “Ho!” says Mr. Atkins. “Hain’t slept in a bed in ten year. Don’t believe I could do it.” “It’s easy,” says I. “I do it every night.” “All in bein’ used to it,” says he. In spite of Mr. Atkins’s bein’ so lazy and shiftless, I took a liking to him. Somehow it didn’t seem like laziness, but like something different altogether. He was so simple and kind of gentle and his eyes was kind. You almost got the idea that he didn’t know about things, especial’ about how to work, and that it wasn’t his fault at all. “Didn’t you ever work?” says I, because I was curious about it. “Once,” says he. “What at?” says I. “Painter,” says he. “House or picture?” says I. “Houses mostly.” “Must be fun—paintin’ houses,” says I. “Would be if it wasn’t work. I calc’late I could enjoy to paint a house if I wasn’t paid for it—if I was jest doin’ it to show folks I could. But when you’re doin’ it as a job it hain’t the same.” Catty was thinking hard. “What d’you need to go into the paintin’ business, Dad?” “Paints,” says Mr. Atkins. “What else?” “Ladders and planks and brushes and oils.” “Um!... Cost much?” “Heaps.” For a minute Catty didn’t say a word, but just stared at the water. Then he says to himself, “Where in tunket be I goin’ to git ladders and brushes and them things?” “Hain’t thinkin’ of makin’ me go to paintin’, be you?” “Thinkin’ of it some,” says Catty, “but thinkin’ ’s as far’s I kin git jest now.” “Then I’ll keep on fishin’,” says Mr. Atkins. “No use gittin’ het up and worried before it’s time.” “We got to have respectable clothes, too.” says Catty. “Next thing I’ll be wearin’ a plug-hat,” says Mr. Atkins. “Maybe on Sundays,” says Catty, serious as anything. I guess he was thinking quite a ways ahead. “Ho!” says Mr. Atkins. “Come on,” says Catty to me. “Where?” “Look around and think. I wonder if there are any ladders in this town.” “Fire company’s got some,” says I, and grinned. We walked up past the waterworks and down to Main Street. Catty didn’t say a word, but kept looking and looking, and sort of tucking away information about our town in his head. We walked from one end of Main Street to the other, and when we got to the town pump that stands at the end of the bridge he stopped and says: “There hain’t a painter and paperhanger shop in town.” “No,” says I. “We got two painters that puts up wall-paper sometimes, but they don’t keep any shop. Jest have their stuff in their barns.” “Who sells paper?” “Drug-stores.” “And paint?” “Hardware-stores.”