AC dBooks

Where'd you say your pop come from?"
"I dunno. He ain't my real pop."
Annersley turned and looked down at the lean, bright little face. "Yon
hungry, son?"
"You bet!"
"What you say if we kill a chicken for supper--and celebrate."
"G'wan, you're joshin' me!"
"Nope. I like chicken. And I got one that needs killin'; a no-account
ole hen what won't set and won't lay."
"Then we'll ring her doggone head off, eh?"
"Somethin' like that--only I ain't jest hatin' that there hen. She
ain't no good, that's all."
Young Pete pondered, watching Annersley's grave, bearded face.
Suddenly he brightened. "I know! Nobody kin tell when you're joshin'
'em, 'cause your whiskers hides it. Guess I'll grow some whiskers and
then I kin fool everybody."
Old man Annersley chuckled, and spoke to the horses. Young Pete,
happier than he had ever been, wondered if this good luck would
last--if it were real, or just a dream that would vanish, leaving him
shivering in his tattered blanket, and the horse-trader telling him to
get up and rustle wood for the morning fire.


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