bright, real bright. And Cole was beginning to think this might be only a small sample of Arthur's capabilities.
Cole jotted down the score. Sixty-one to a dismal twenty-two in this, their sixth straight game. Arthur had won four out of five so far and seemed well on his way to yet another victory.
Now that Gwin was out of earshot, Cole decided to try an experiment to confirm the suspicions he harbored about the ragamuffin perched so innocently across from him.
He flipped the page of his tally book and scratched out a random arithmetic problem. "Arthur, I bet you a nickel that I can figure the answer to an addition problem faster than you can. Are you up to it?"
Arthur scooted forward in his seat. "You got yourself a bet."
"What's four hundred sixty-three plus two hundred ninety-six plus six hundred eighteen plus eighty-nine?"
Arthur's forehead didn't so much as wrinkle. Cole barely got a chance to carry the first two. "One thousand four hundred sixty-six."
Even though he knew Arthur's answer was correct, Cole finished the problem. "Okay, you earned yourself a nickel. Let’s try multiplication. Are you ready?"
"Double or nothing?"
Cole stifled a smile. "All right. Ready? This is going to be a hard one."
"That's what you think." Arthur placed his hands on the table and furrowed his pale brow in a scholarly manner. "Go."
"Twenty-six times forty-two times sixteen times nine."
Cole watched Arthur carefully. There was no screwing up of the face, no biting of the lip, no squinting eyes, certainly no sweating. His stubby fingers drummed the table staccato-quick. His mouth opened and the answer dropped out. "One hundred fifty-seven thousand, two hundred forty-eight."
Cole worked out the problem and looked up at Arthur. He couldn’t disguise his amazement. "I guess I owe you at the next whistle-stop."
Arthur beamed. "Easiest money I ever stole."
Cole closed his tally book and tucked it into his coat pocket. "So, Arthur, where did you go to school?"
"I never went to school. We moved around too much."
"Who taught you to read and write and figure?"
Arthur pulled out his slingshot, raised it to eye level, and pulled the strap, back, back, back. "Emmaline was a schoolteacher before she took up singing. She taught me some, but Gwinnie taught me mostly. That is, until I got smarter than her." He released the strap. Snap!
"Who's Emmaline?"
"She was my ma."
Cole dealt them each ten cards. It struck him as odd that the kid referred to his parents by their Christian names. Then again, he came from a background that was nothing if not unconventional.
"Gwin's been looking out for you for a long time, hasn't she?"
Arthur tucked his slingshot back into his pocket and reached for his cards. "Gwinnie acts like a mother hen. She still checks behind my ears and like that. She's got what they call maternal instincts."
"That's probably because she's so much older than you."
"Yeah, well, our ma was always real busy with her own stuff."
Cole drew from the deck and discarded. "What was your mother like?"
Arthur grinned. "Oh, she was great fun. She could sing like a nightingale, and, holy crow, could she ever tell a story!"
"It sounds like she was very special."
"She could shoot the ashes off a burning cigar at twelve paces. How many ladies do you know who can do that?"
"None."
Arthur looked down at his cards, his grin fading. "You bet your boots."
Cole watched the boy rearrange cards in his hand. "Did your mother pass away?"
"Yeah, a couple years ago." He threw down a card and picked Cole's from the discard pile.
"And Silas, was he real busy, too?"
"Sure, but he still played with us and stuff. He always treated Gwinnie like his own kid, even after—" Arthur stopped, clearly troubled.
"After what?"
"It's a long story."
Cole picked a six, laid down a trio of the same, and threw an ace. "We've got time."
Arthur stared at his cards, but Cole could tell he wasn't thinking about the game. "A little while before she died,
Cole jotted down the score. Sixty-one to a dismal twenty-two in this, their sixth straight game. Arthur had won four out of five so far and seemed well on his way to yet another victory.
Now that Gwin was out of earshot, Cole decided to try an experiment to confirm the suspicions he harbored about the ragamuffin perched so innocently across from him.
He flipped the page of his tally book and scratched out a random arithmetic problem. "Arthur, I bet you a nickel that I can figure the answer to an addition problem faster than you can. Are you up to it?"
Arthur scooted forward in his seat. "You got yourself a bet."
"What's four hundred sixty-three plus two hundred ninety-six plus six hundred eighteen plus eighty-nine?"
Arthur's forehead didn't so much as wrinkle. Cole barely got a chance to carry the first two. "One thousand four hundred sixty-six."
Even though he knew Arthur's answer was correct, Cole finished the problem. "Okay, you earned yourself a nickel. Let’s try multiplication. Are you ready?"
"Double or nothing?"
Cole stifled a smile. "All right. Ready? This is going to be a hard one."
"That's what you think." Arthur placed his hands on the table and furrowed his pale brow in a scholarly manner. "Go."
"Twenty-six times forty-two times sixteen times nine."
Cole watched Arthur carefully. There was no screwing up of the face, no biting of the lip, no squinting eyes, certainly no sweating. His stubby fingers drummed the table staccato-quick. His mouth opened and the answer dropped out. "One hundred fifty-seven thousand, two hundred forty-eight."
Cole worked out the problem and looked up at Arthur. He couldn’t disguise his amazement. "I guess I owe you at the next whistle-stop."
Arthur beamed. "Easiest money I ever stole."
Cole closed his tally book and tucked it into his coat pocket. "So, Arthur, where did you go to school?"
"I never went to school. We moved around too much."
"Who taught you to read and write and figure?"
Arthur pulled out his slingshot, raised it to eye level, and pulled the strap, back, back, back. "Emmaline was a schoolteacher before she took up singing. She taught me some, but Gwinnie taught me mostly. That is, until I got smarter than her." He released the strap. Snap!
"Who's Emmaline?"
"She was my ma."
Cole dealt them each ten cards. It struck him as odd that the kid referred to his parents by their Christian names. Then again, he came from a background that was nothing if not unconventional.
"Gwin's been looking out for you for a long time, hasn't she?"
Arthur tucked his slingshot back into his pocket and reached for his cards. "Gwinnie acts like a mother hen. She still checks behind my ears and like that. She's got what they call maternal instincts."
"That's probably because she's so much older than you."
"Yeah, well, our ma was always real busy with her own stuff."
Cole drew from the deck and discarded. "What was your mother like?"
Arthur grinned. "Oh, she was great fun. She could sing like a nightingale, and, holy crow, could she ever tell a story!"
"It sounds like she was very special."
"She could shoot the ashes off a burning cigar at twelve paces. How many ladies do you know who can do that?"
"None."
Arthur looked down at his cards, his grin fading. "You bet your boots."
Cole watched the boy rearrange cards in his hand. "Did your mother pass away?"
"Yeah, a couple years ago." He threw down a card and picked Cole's from the discard pile.
"And Silas, was he real busy, too?"
"Sure, but he still played with us and stuff. He always treated Gwinnie like his own kid, even after—" Arthur stopped, clearly troubled.
"After what?"
"It's a long story."
Cole picked a six, laid down a trio of the same, and threw an ace. "We've got time."
Arthur stared at his cards, but Cole could tell he wasn't thinking about the game. "A little while before she died,
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