Patsey Watson waited on the corner of the street. It was in the early morning and Patsey's face bore marks of a recent and mighty conflict with soap and water. Patsey looked apprehensively every now and then at his home; his mother might emerge any minute and insist on his wearing a coat; his mother could be very tiresome that way sometimes.
It seemed long this morning to wait for the butcher, but the only way to be sure of a ride was to be on the spot. Sometimes there were delays in getting away from home. Getting on a coat was one; finding a hat was the worst of all. Since Bugsey got the nail in his foot and could not go out the hat question was easier. The hat was still hard to find, but not impossible.
Wilford Ducker came along. Wilford had just had a dose of electric oil artfully concealed in a cup of tea, and he felt desperate. His mother had often told him not to play with any of the Watson boys, they were so rough and unladylike in their manner. Perhaps that was why Wilford came over at once to Patsey. Patsey did not care for Wilford Ducker even if he did live in a big house with screen doors on it. Mind you, he did not wear braces yet, only a waist with white buttons on it, and him seven! Patsey's manner was cold.
"You goin' fer butcher-ride?" Wilford asked.
"Yep," Patsey answered with very little warmth.
"Say, Pat, lemme go," Wilford coaxed.
"Nope," Patsey replied, indifferently.
"Aw, do, Pat, won't cher?"
Mrs. Ducker had been very particular about Wilford's enunciation. Once she dismissed a servant for dropping her final g's. Mrs. Ducker considered it more serious to drop a final g than a dinner plate. She often spoke of how particular she was. She said she had insisted on correct enunciation from the first. So Wilford said again:
"Aw, do, Pat, won't cher?"
Patsey looked carelessly down the street and began to sing:
How much wood would a wood-chuck chuck
If a wood-chuck could chuck wood.
"What cher take fer butcher-ride, Pat?" Wilford asked.
"What cher got?"
Patsey had stopped singing, but still beat time with his foot to the imaginary music.
Wilford produced a jack-knife in very good repair.
Patsey stopped beating time, though only for an instant. It does not do to be too keen.
"It's a good un," Wilford said with pride. "It's a Rodger, mind ye—two blades."
"Name yer price," Patsey condescended, after a deliberate examination.
"Lemme ride all week, ord'rin' and deliv'rin'."
"Not much, I won't," Patsey declared stoutly. "You can ride three days for it."
Wilford began to whimper, but just then the butcher cart whirled around the corner.
Wilford ran toward it. Patsey held the knife.
The butcher stopped and let Wilford mount. It was all one to the butcher. He knew he usually got a boy at this corner.
Patsey ran after the butcher cart. He had caught sight of someone whom Wilford had not yet noticed. It was Mrs. Ducker. Mrs. Ducker had been down the street ordering a crate of pears. Mrs. Ducker was just as particular about pears as she was about final g's, so she had gone herself to select them.
When she saw Wilford, her son, riding with the butcher—well, really, she could not have told the sensation it gave her. Wilford could not have told, either, just how he felt when he saw his mother. But both Mrs. Ducker and her son had a distinct sensation when they met that morning.
She called Wilford, and he came. No sooner had he left his seat than Patsey Watson took his place. Wilford dared not ask for the return of the knife: his mother would know that he had had dealings with Patsey Watson, and his account at the maternal bank was already overdrawn.
Mrs. Ducker was more sorrowful than angry.
"Wilford!" she said with great dignity, regarding the downcast little boy with exaggerated scorn, "and you a Ducker!"
She escorted the fallen Ducker sadly homeward, but, oh, so glad that she had saved him from the corroding influence of the butcher boy.
While Wilford Ducker was unfastening the china buttons on his waist, preparatory to a season of rest and retirement, that he might the better ponder upon the sins of disobedience and evil associations, Patsey Watson was opening and shutting his new knife proudly.
"It was easy done," he was saying to himself. "I'm kinder sorry I jewed him down now. Might as well ha' let him have the week. Sure, there's no luck in being mane."
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