long-legged, tow-headed, jeans-clad countrified cub of about sixteen lounged in one day, and without removing his hands from the depths of his trousers pockets or taking off his faded ruin of a slouch hat, whose broken rim hung limp and ragged about his eyes and ears like a bug-eaten cabbage leaf, stared indifferently around, then leaned his hip against the editor’s table, crossed his mighty brogans, aimed at a distant fly from a crevice in his upper teeth, laid him low, and said with composure: 

“Whar’s the boss?”

“I am the boss,” said the editor, following this curious bit of architecture wonderingly along up to its clock-face with his eye.

“Don’t want anybody fur to learn the business, ’tain’t likely?”

“Well, I don’t know.  Would you like to learn it?”

“Pap’s so po’ he cain’t run me no mo’, so I want to git a show somers if I kin, ’taint no diffunce what—­I’m strong and hearty, and I don’t turn my back on no kind of work, hard nur soft.”

“Do you think you would like to learn the printing business?”

“Well, I don’t re’ly k’yer a durn what I do learn, so’s I git a chance fur to make my way.  I’d jist as soon learn print’n’s anything.”

“Can you read?”

“Yes—­middlin’.”

“Write?”

“Well, I’ve seed people could lay over me thar.”

“Cipher?”

“Not good enough to keep store, I don’t reckon, but up as fur as twelve-times-twelve I ain’t no slouch.  ’Tother side of that is what gits me.”

“Where is your home?”

“I’m f’m old Shelby.”

“What’s your father’s religious denomination?”

“Him?  Oh, he’s a blacksmith.”

“No, no—­I don’t mean his trade.  What’s his religious denomination?”

“Oh—­I didn’t understand you befo’.  He’s a Freemason.”

“No, no, you don’t get my meaning yet.  What I mean is, does he belong to any church?”

“Now you’re talkin’!  Couldn’t make out what you was a-tryin’ to git through yo’ head no way.  B’long to a church!  Why, boss, he’s ben the pizenest kind of Free-will Babtis’ for forty year.  They ain’t no pizener ones ’n what he is.  Mighty good man, pap is.  Everybody says that.  If they said any diffrunt they wouldn’t say it whar I wuz —­not much they wouldn’t.”

“What is your own religion?”

“Well, boss, you’ve kind o’ got me, there—­and yit you hain’t got me so mighty much, nuther.  I think ’t if a feller he’ps another feller when he’s in trouble, and don’t cuss, and don’t do no mean things, nur noth’n’ he ain’ no business to do, and don’t spell the Saviour’s name with a little g, he ain’t runnin’ no resks—­he’s about as saift as he b’longed to a church.”

“But suppose he did spell it with a little g—­what then?”

“Well, if he done it a-purpose, I reckon he wouldn’t stand no chance—­he oughtn’t to have no chance, anyway, I’m most rotten certain ’bout that.”