“Ask your grandmother,” I says. “Ask her what became of those checks. You saw her burn one of them, as I remember.” She wasn’t even listening, with her face all gummed up with paint and her eyes hard as a fice dog’s.

“Do you know what I’d do if I thought your money or hers either bought one cent of this?” she says, putting her hand on her dress.

“What would you do?” I says, “Wear a barrel?”

“I’d tear it right off and throw it into the street,” she says. “Dont you believe me?”

“Sure you would,” I says. “You do it every time.”

“See if I wouldn’t,” She says. She grabbed the neck of her dress in both hands and made like she would tear it.

“You tear that dress,” I says, “And I’ll give you a whipping right here that you’ll remember all your life.”