“Well, there’s times when we have more mealtimes than we do meals, but Dad he gits an odd job, and I git an odd job and mostly we do pretty well, thank you kindly.” Just then Dad came out through the back gate, and right here I want to say something about my Dad. I heard a couple of women say one day that they guessed he was a little crazy, but I want to let you know that he ain’t crazy a bit, and I can lick any feller that says he is. Dad ain’t old, either. He ain’t forty yet. Only thing I got to complain about is the way he cusses over my grammar. He always talks as correct as Mother does, only more so, and he’s got manners. Not the kind of manners folks put on at a party or in church, but the kind you have always and use always and that look to people as if you didn’t really _try_ to have ’em, but as if they came natural. The reason those women said he was kind of crazy is because he don’t act just like everybody else in town. He’s polite even to the man that comes to get our garbage, and he treats boys as if they were just as old as he is, and don’t call them “My boy” and “Bub” and such like names. And he fusses around with me just like he was a kid. Why, he can do more things than any kid I ever saw! “How’s the gun?” says he. “Somethin’ seems to be wrong with it,” I says. “It don’t hit things.” “Let me see,” he says, and just then a big rat went running along the alley. Well, _sir_, quick as a wink Dad snapped the gun to his shoulder, and off it went, and the rat went end over end. I ran over and picked it up by the tail. It was shot right plumb through the head. “Huh!” says I. “Maybe,” says Dad, “something was wrong with the way you aimed it.” “Maybe,” says I. Dad looked over at Catty and smiled. “Good morning,” says he. “Good morning,” says Catty. “Don’t believe I know you,” says Dad. “He’s Catty Atkins,” says I. “He and his Dad just came to town. They’re shiftless.” Dad looked quick at Catty to see if I’d said something that hurt his feelings, but Catty only nodded that I was right. “Do you find it hard work, being shiftless?” says Dad. “We make out to enjoy it,” says Catty. “It must be pleasant,” says Dad. “I’ve often wished I was fixed so I could be shiftless. But when you’ve a family—” Catty nodded. “There’s just Dad and me. He didn’t used to be shiftless till Ma died, so he says.” “Are you going to make a profession of it,” Dad says, “or do you plan to do something else when you grow up?”