“I dunno what I’m _goin’_ to do,” says Catty, with his jaw shoved out and his eyes kind of hard and mad, “but I kin tell you what I hain’t goin’ to do. I hain’t goin’ to move an inch.” “Bully for you,” says I, and in another second he had turned around and run off into the dark. I dunno to this day what made him come and tell me about it, because he didn’t ask for any help or anything. But I got a sneaking suspicion it was jest because he was sort of lonesome and kind of wanted to make sure he really did have a friend in the world. CHAPTER VII I could hardly wait for breakfast to be over in the morning so that I could hunt up Catty Atkins and find out just exactly what had happened. I told Dad about it, but he didn’t say much. “Catty said he wasn’t going to leave town, did he?” Dad asked. “Yes,” I says. “Well,” says Dad, with a kind of a hint of a grin, “I shouldn’t be surprised if folks had to get used to Catty being here, then.” “Can’t they make him go?” I asked. “They could make some folks go. I guess it depends a lot on the folks.” I found Catty arguing with his father, it seemed like his father was willing to pull up stakes and go away, and Catty was insisting that they were going to stay. “But you can’t,” says Mr. Atkins, waggling his head kind of bewildered. “They won’t let you. They’re a-goin’ to chase you off. This here town don’t want no traffickin’ with us, no way. We might jest as well up and leave friendly as to get chased by a bulldog.” “There ain’t no bulldog,” says Catty. “Can’t never tell. Bulldogs puts in appearances when least expected.” “They hain’t got no right to chase us off. We hain’t vagrants like the marshal said.” “What be we, then?” “Business men,” says Catty. “The marshal he says that a vagrant is a feller with no visible means of support. Well, hain’t we got visible means? Hain’t we in the paintin’ and decoratin’ business? Hain’t we got a job? Hain’t we rented a place of business? I guess we have.” “You’ll see,” says Mr. Atkins, solemn-like. “When town marshals wants to run folks out of town, why, they jest up and runs ’em. Who’s a-goin’ to stop ’em?” “Me,” says Catty. He snapped it out like he was biting the word off a chunk of the dictionary and it come hard. “What you goin’ to do?” I says. “Jest go ahead and mind my own business,” says Catty, “and let the marshal do the doin’.” “Um!” says I. “Um nothin’!” says he. “You watch.... Now I got to git after them ladders and that paint.” “Hadn’t you better be seeing about this other thing first?” I says. Catty looked at me a second, and he looked just like a fellow who had made up his mind and wasn’t going to change it. He looked like he would _fight_ and fight hard. “I’m goin’ to act jest like that marshal never came here at all,” says he. “When does your newspaper come out?”