“Well, I don’t know a better place to put it.  Have you got any hot water?  I’ll use this tub at the cistern.  Please give me some soap and towels.”

Instead Margaret pushed by him with a shriek.  Billy had played by producing a cord from his pocket, and having tied the tails of Margaret’s white kittens together, he had climbed on a box and hung them across the clothes line.  Wild with fright the kittens were clawing each other to death, and the air was white with fur.  The string had twisted and the frightened creatures could not recognize friends.  Margaret stepped back with bleeding hands.  Sinton cut the cord with his knife and the poor little cats raced under the house bleeding and disfigured.  Margaret white with wrath faced Wesley.

“If you don’t hitch up and take that animal back to town,” she said, “I will.”

Billy threw himself on the grass and began to scream.

“You said I could have fried chicken for supper,” he wailed.  “You said she was a nice lady!”

Wesley lifted him and something in his manner of handling the child infuriated Margaret.  His touch was so gentle.  She reached for Billy and gripped his shirt collar in the back.  Wesley’s hand closed over hers.

“Gently, girl!” he said.  “This little body is covered with sores.”

“Sores!” she ejaculated.  “Sores?  What kind of sores?”

“Oh, they might be from bruises made by fists or boot toes, or they might be bad blood, from wrong eating, or they might be pure filth.  Will you hand me some towels?”

“No, I won’t!” said Margaret.

“Well, give me some rags, then.”

Margaret compromised on pieces of old tablecloth.  Wesley led Billy to the cistern, pumped cold water into the tub, poured in a kettle of hot, and beginning at the head scoured him.  The boy shut his little teeth, and said never a word though he twisted occasionally when the soap struck a raw spot.  Margaret watched the process from the window in amazed and ever-increasing anger.  Where did Wesley learn it?  How could his big hands be so gentle?  He came to the door.

“Have you got any peroxide?” he asked.

“A little,” she answered stiffly.

“Well, I need about a pint, but I’ll begin on what you have.”

Margaret handed him the bottle.  Wesley took a cup, weakened the drug and said to Billy:  “Man, these sores on you must be healed.  Then you must eat the kind of food that’s fit for little men.  I am going to put some medicine on you, and it is going to sting like fire.  If it just runs off, I won’t use any more.  If it boils, there is poison in these places, and they must be tied up, dosed every day, and you must be washed, and kept mighty clean.  Now, hold still, because I am going to put it on.”

“I think the one on my leg is the worst,” said the undaunted Billy, holding out a raw place.  Sinton poured on the drug.  Billy’s body twisted and writhed, but he did not run.