“The only way to get to be a marksman,” he says, “is to stick to it and shoot and shoot. Isn’t that so, Catty?” “Yes,” says Catty. Then Dad went away after telling Catty to come around often. “Tell your father I’ll drop in to see him—and talk about roads and brooks and the pleasures of shiftlessness,” he said, as he went through the gate. I heard somebody whistle, and knew it was either Banty Gage or Skoodles Gordon. I whistled back. “Here come the fellers,” says I. “Now we kin have a reg’lar shootin’-match.” “Guess I’ll be moggin’ along,” says Catty. “Why?” “Oh, I dunno. Just guess I’ll be goin’.” “I wisht you’d show those kids how you can shoot that beanie.” “I ain’t much for kids. Don’t have much to do with ’em.” “Why not? You stopped and talked with me.” “I was sort of int’rested in the way you was missin’ that bottle. Glad I stopped, too. I got to see your Dad. He’s mighty near as good a Dad as mine.” “Aw, rats!” says I. “Banty and Skoodles is heaps of fun.” “I don’t git along with kids,” he says, stubborn. “Got so’s I never have anythin’ to do with ’em. Mostly I never have anythin’ to do with anybody but Dad.” “Why?” “We jest don’t git along. It’s on account of our bein’ shiftless. I’ve had to lick a sight of kids on account of callin’ me or Dad names. And then their Mas see ’em playin’ with me and makes ’em stop—and I have to lick ’em on that account.” “Why don’t their Mas want them to play with you?” “’Cause we’re shiftless.” “My mother wouldn’t care.” “Bet she would.” “Anyhow, Dad wouldn’t. You seen him. He told you to come around, didn’t he?” “I hain’t never seen anybody jest like your Dad before,” says Catty. “Mostly I get told to clear out.” “Aw, shucks!” says I. “Good-by,” says he. “Hope you git to shoot that gun like a champeen. Maybe I’ll see you ag’in some day.” “Come around any time,” says I; “and, if you hain’t got any objection, I’ll drop around your place.” “Come ahead,” says he. “Maybe we’ll still be there, and I guess I kin stand it if you kin.” He started off, but he stopped and says: “Your Dad—die’s all right. I like your Dad.” CHAPTER II It was a day or two afterward that I run across Catty Atkins poking along the road on the edge of town, all alone. I hollered to him and he stopped. “How’s things?” says I. “Sich as there is, they’re perty fair,” says he. “Hain’t moved on yet?” He sort of grinned. “Oh yes. We left for Philadelphy two days ago. Arrived there about ten this mornin’.” “Huh!” says I. “Come on back to my house and let’s shoot with my rifle.” “Don’t guess I better,” he said, kind of hesitating, but I could see he wanted to come. “Come on,” says I. “Dad was askin’ after you this mornin’.” “Was he?” says Catty, and his eyes got bright as anything. “Was he really?... I’ll come.”