to know it, some day he will have a use for it and will need it, providing he has still got it and aint give it away to nobody. And then he will thank his stars for the good friend that Has been his friend since he had to be toted around that livery stable on his back like a baby and held Mm on the first horse he ever rode, that warned him in time not to throw it away and lose it for good by forget-fulness or accident or mischance or maybe even just friendly blabbing about what aint nobody else's business but theirs—'
'What you mean is, whatever I see on this trip up here, not to tell Boss or father or Mother or Grandmother when we get back home. Is that it?'
'Dont you agree?' Boon said. 'Aint that not a bit more than just pure and sensible good sense and nobody's business but yours and mine? Dont you agree?'
'Then why didn't you just come right out and say so?' I said. Only he still remembered to make me take another bath; the bathroom smelled even more. I dont mean stronger: I just mean more. I didn't know much about boarding houses, so maybe they could have one with just ladies in it. I asked Boon; we were on the way back downstairs then; it was beginning to get dark and I was hungry.
'You damn right they're ladies,' he said. 'If I so much as catch you trying to show any sass to any of them —'
'I mean, dont any men board here? live here?'
'No. Dont no men actively live here except Mr Binford, and there aint no boarding to speak of neither. But they have plenty of company here, in and out after supper and later on; you'll see. Of course this is Sunday night, and Mr Binford is pretty strict about Sunday: no dancing and frolicking: just visiting their particular friends quiet and polite and not wasting too much time, and Mr Binford sees to it they damn sure better keep on being quiet and polite while they are here. In fact, he's a good deal that way even on week nights. Which reminds me. All you need to do is be quiet and polite yourself and enjoy yourself and listen good in case he happens to say anything to you in particular, because he dont talk very loud the first time and he dont never like it when somebody makes him have to talk twice. This way. They're likely in Miss Reba's room.'
They were: Miss Reba, Miss Corrie, Mr Binford and Otis. Miss Reba had on a black dress now, and three more diamonds, yellowing too. Mr Binford was little, the littlest one in the room above Otis and me. He had on a black Sunday suit and gold studs and a big gold watch chain and a heavy moustache, and a gold-headed cane and his derby hat and a glass of whiskey on the table at his elbow. But the first thing you noticed about him was his eyes because the first thing you found out was that he was already looking at you. Otis had his Sunday clothes on too. He was not even as big as me but there was something wrong about him.
'Evening, Boon,' Mr Binford said. 'Evening, Mr Binford,' Boon said. 'This is a friend of mine. Lucius Priest.' But when I made my manners to him, he didn't say anything at all. He just quit looking at me. 'Reba,' he said, 'buy Boon and Corrie a drink. Tell Minnie to make these boys some lemonade.'
'Minnie's putting supper on,' Miss Reba said. She unlocked the closet door. It had a kind of bar in it—one shelf with glasses, another with bottles. 'Besides, that one of Corrie's dont want lemonade no more than Boon does. He wants beer.'
'I know it,' Mr Binford said. 'He slipped away from me out at the park. He would have made it only he couldn't find anybody to go into the saloon for him. Is yours a beer-head too, Boon?'
'No sir,' I said. 'I dont drink beer.'
'Why?' Mr Binford said. 'You dont like it or you cant get it?'
'No sir,' I said. 'I'm not old enough yet.'
'Whiskey, then?' Mr Binford said.
'No sir,' I said. 'I dont drink anything. I promised my mother I wouldn't unless Father or Boss invited me.'
'Who's his boss?' Mr Binford said to Boon.
'He means his grandfather,' Boon said.
'Oh,' Mr Binford said. 'The one that owns the automobile. So evidently nobody promised him anything.'
'You dont need to,' Boon said. 'He tells you what to do and you do it.'
'You sound like you call him boss too,' Mr Binford said. 'Sometimes.'
'That's right,' Boon said. That's what I meant about Mr Binford: he was already looking at me before I even knew it.
'But your mother's not here now,' he said. 'You're on a tear with Boon now. Eighty—is it?—miles away.'
'No sir,' I said. 'I promised her.'
'I see,' Mr Binford said. 'You just promised her you wouldn't drink with Boon. You didn't promise not to go whore-hopping with him.'
'You son of a bitch,' Miss Reba said. I dont know how to say it. Without moving, she and Miss Corrie jumped, sprang, confederated, Miss Reba with the whiskey bottle in one hand and three glasses in the other.
'That'll do,' Mr Binford said.
'Like hell,' Miss Reba said. 'I can throw you out too. Dont think I wont. What the hell kind of language is that?'
'And you too!' Miss Corrie said; she was talking at Miss Reba. 'You're just as bad! Right in front of them—'
'I said, that'll do,' Mr Binford said. 'One of them cant get beer and the other dont drink it so maybe they both just come here for refinement and education. Call it they just got some. They just learned that whore and son of a bitch are both words to think twice before pulling the trigger on because both of them can backfire.'
'Aw, come on, Mr Binford,' Boon said.
'Why, be damned if here aint still another hog in this wallow,' Mr Binford said. 'A big one, too. Wake up, Miss Reba, before these folks suffocate for moisture.' Miss Reba poured the whiskey, her hand shaking, enough to clink the bottle against the glass, saying son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch, in a thick fierce whisper. 'That's better,' Mr Binford said. 'Let's have peace around _ Let's drink to it.' He raised his glass and was saying, 'L dies and
