was white; not like another man's white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl–a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. As for his clothes–just rags, that was all. He had one ankle resting on t'other knee; the boot on that foot was busted, and two of huis toes stuck through, and he worked thein now and then. His hat was laying on the floor; an old black slouch with the top caved in, like a lid.
I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at ne, with his chair tilted back a little. I set the candle down. I noticed the window was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. He kept a-looking me all over. By-and-by he says:
"Starchy clothes–very. You think you're a good deal of a big-bug, don't you?"
"Maybe I am, maybe I ain't," I says.
"Don't you give me none o' your lip," says he. "You're put on considerble many frills since I been away. I'll take you down a peg before I get done with you. You're educated, too, they say; can read and write. You think you're better'n your father, now, don't you, because he can't? I'll take it out of you. Who told you you might meddle with such hifalut'n foolishness, hey?–who told you you could?"
"The widow. She told me."
"The widow, bey?–and who told the widow she could put in her shovel about a thing that ain't none of her business?"
"Nobody never told her."
"Well, I'll learn her how to meddle. And looky here–you drop that school, you hear? I'll learn people to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own father and let on to be better'n what he is. You lemme catch you fooling around that school again, you hear? Your mother couldn't read, and she couldn't write, nuther, before she died. None of the family couldn't, before they died. I can't; and here you're a-swelling yourself
