“Pretty middlin’ shootin’,” says somebody behind me, and I turned around quick. There was a kid I’d never seen. He was kind of small, with bare feet and clothes that looked as if he’d found them in an ash-barrel and then slept in them. His hair was kind of bristly, and he didn’t have on any hat. He wasn’t smiling or making fun of me as far as I could see, for his face was as sober as a houseful of deacons. It was a kind of a thin face with a sharp chin and a straight nose and funny crinkles around the eyes. But the eyes were gray and kind of sparkly. I looked at him a minute, wondering who he was, before I said anything. Then I says: “Calc’late this gun ain’t much good.” “Is it a reg’lar gun,” says he, “or jest a kind of a cap pistol?” That made me mad, so I says, sarcastic: “Naw, this ain’t a gun. This is a pan of mush and milk.” “Maybe,” says he, kind of slow and solemn, like he was thinking it over mighty careful—“maybe you could hit things better with it if it was mush and milk. It would spatter more.” “Say,” says I, “who are you, anyhow?” “I wa’n’t brung up to give anythin’ away free,” says he, “but I’ll trade you—my name for yourn.” “It’s a trade,” says I. “Mine’s Moore. Mostly the kids call me Wee-wee.” “Mine’s Atkins,” says he, “and folks call me Catty because I can climb like one.” “One what?” says I. “Mud turtle,” says he; “that’s plain. C-a-t-t-y—mud turtle. Spells it every time where I come from.” “Where’d you come from?” “Different places.” “Goin’ to live here?” “Maybe.” “Don’t you know?” “Hain’t thought about it much.” “If you’re not goin’ to live here, what made you _come_ here?” “A body’s got to go some place,” says he, very solemn. “Dad and me wasn’t p’tic’lar. We didn’t start out to come here, we just _got_ here, and here we be!” “What’s your Dad do?” “Dad don’t do much. He calc’lates to be shiftless.” “Don’t he work?” “I’ve seen him,” says Catty, “but it hain’t usual.” “Are you rich?” “Well—we got our health and these here clothes is mine, free and clear. No mortgages on ’em nor nothin’. Dad’s clothes is his’n, too, but they hain’t so gaudy as mine.” “Kind of tramps?” says I, getting interested. “Not tramps—j’st shiftless. Didn’t I tell you?” “Where you sleepin’?” “If you ain’t careful,” he says, as solemn as an owl, “you’ll ketch yourself askin’ a question. We been livin’,” says he, “in a little house down by the bayou.” “That tumble-down shanty not far from the waterworks?” “That’s the one.” “There isn’t any furniture in it,” says I. “Movin’ about like Dad and me, furniture would be a nuisance.” “There’s no glass in the windows.” “We’re partial to fresh air.” “Huh!” says I. “You’re dog-gone easy suited. If your Dad doesn’t work, how do you get to eat?”