“I got to git Dad one of them painter’s suits made out of white stuff. You know the kind. Got to have that to-day, too.” “Why?” says I. “You’ll see,” says he, which was a way of his. He didn’t always tell a fellow everything that was in his mind, and he took a lot of pleasure in surprising folks. “Ought to git one for along about three dollars, hadn’t I?” “Guess so,” says I. “Got the three dollars?” “No, but three dollars hadn’t ought to be hard to git if you set your mind to it.” “Huh!” says I. “Might as well be a million.” “You’ll see,” says he. “I hain’t earned much money, but it kin be done. Everybody does it, and if everybody kin do it, why, I calc’late I kin, too.” “How?” “Don’t know, but jest keep your ears open and your eyes open, and somethin’s sure to turn up.” “If you had a cow—” says I. “What if I did?” says he. “Why, you could sell her.” “I could sell an elephant if I had one, I expect, but I hain’t got no elephants, nor no zebras, nor no ornithorincuses. Know somebody wants to buy a cow?” “Mr. Gackins next door to Gage’s was sayin’ to Dad the other night that he was lookin’ out for a Jersey.” “Um!... Jersey, eh? S’pose he meant it?” “Know he did,” says I. “His last cow took sick and died, and he needs another.” “Let’s go see him,” says Catty. So we walked up toward Gackins’s, and Mr. Gackins was digging in the garden. “Mr. Gackins?” says Catty. “What kin I do fur you, young man?” says Mr. Gackins. “I hear tell you aim to buy a cow.” “Calc’late to, if I kin git a good one.” “Cash?” “On the spot,” says Mr. Gackins. “Got a Jersey fer sale?” “Expect to have. How high d’you aim to go fer sich a cow?” “Depends on the cow,” says Mr. Gackins. “Pervidin’ she was a good-dispositioned critter that wasn’t give to kickin’ over the milk-pail and stickin’ her hoof in the milk, and pervidin’ she give a generous pailful, why, I might go as high as thirty or maybe thirty-five dollars.” “Um!... Goin’ to be home all mornin’?” “Yes.” “Figger I kin fetch around jest the cow you want. Won’t be more ’n an hour or two.” “I’ll be waitin’ fer you, but mind she’s sweet-tempered. I got to milk her myself, and I hain’t hankerin’ to git kicked over the fence, nor yet hooked in the stummick. Always name my cows Jane. Git me one by the name of Jane, if you kin.” “Her name ’ll be Jane,” says Catty, as serious as a judge. We hustled off, and then Catty says to me, “Who owns a good Jersey cow?” “Hiram Winklereid, out a half a mile, keeps quite a herd.” “That’s where we’re headin’,” says Catty. We mogged along the road till we came to Winklereid’s and went back into the big barn. Mr. Winklereid was walking around, looking at his cattle, and Catty went up to him as big as life and more than three times as natural. “Mr. Winklereid,” says he, “I got a man that wants to buy him a good-natured Jersey cow by the name of Jane, that gives a pailful of milk. Got sich a cow fer sale?”