Me and Billy by James Lincoln Collier Page A

feeling he shouldn’t have asked that question, and I was right. Betty Ann looked down at the ground. Then she looked back up at us. “Ma’s not up to it,” she said.
    I started to change the subject. “Maybe we could help—”
    But Billy busted in. “What’s wrong with her?” he said.
    Betty Ann looked Billy smack in the eye. “She’s just not up to it.”
    I tried again. “Listen, Betty Ann, if we help you get the hay in, would you sell us some eggs and such?”
    She looked at me, so’s to shut Billy off. “Pa’d never let you pay for a meal. But I’d be real glad of the help.”
    “That mule wouldn’t of kicked me,” Billy said. “The Professor always said, ‘Billy, you manage them mules like you was born to it.’”
    “Except when you’re poking yourself in the eye with the whip handle,” I said.
    He gave me a quick look, then back to Betty Ann. “You’ll see, Betty Ann.”
    He didn’t say anything further, and we started pitching the hay into the wagon. Being as we were town boys, we didn’t have any real knack for farmwork, but we’d cleaned out the stable at the Home often enough and knew how to handle a pitchfork. We got the job done. I climbed up onto the pile of hay in the wagon, but Billy got onto the driver’s seat and picked up the reins. “You just set there and rest, Betty Ann. I’ll drive the mules. Which way is home?”
    She didn’t climb up but stood there holding the pitchfork, frowning. “I doubt if they’ll do what you tell them. The only ones they’ll obey are me and Pa.”
    “Don’t you worry,” Billy said. “I got a way with mules.” She shook her head, but she climbed up onto the wagon beside Billy. He snapped the reins. “Gee up.” The mules turned away like they’d seen enough, dropped their heads down, and began to chew at the stubble. “Gee up, I said.” The mules didn’t pay him any attention but went on chewing. I couldn’t see Betty Ann’s face from where I sat on the hay pile, but I could tell that she’d got her hand over her mouth. Billy shot her a look. “These are just about the dumbest mules I ever did see.” He snapped the reins again. “Blame you, gee up.”
    Betty Ann couldn’t help herself and began to giggle. “I told you,” she said.
    Billy gave her another look. He knew he was beat, but he wasn’t ready to give in. He snapped the reins three or four times and shouted, “Gee up you blame idiots.”
    Betty Ann laughed out loud. “Billy, you better let me have those reins. Otherwise we’ll miss supper and breakfast, too, like as not.”

Chapter Ten
    The farmhouse was about a half mile away, around a bend in the road. The house was a little more spruce than some of the others. The paint wasn’t wore off quite so bad, the roof looked like it had been patched recent, and hanging from one of the big maple trees around the house was a swing, where I figured Betty Ann had swung when she was little and maybe still did.
    But they weren’t rich, either. The barn had never seen a lick of paint, and one of the front windows had a square of wood in it instead of glass.
    We swung around back. Me and Billy pitched the hay up into the barn loft, while Betty Ann unhitched the mules and curried them. While we was working, I noticed a fella with a crutch under one arm and his legtied up in slats have a look out the kitchen door at us from time to time. He didn’t say anything, just looked.
    Then we were done, and Betty Ann led us to the house. The man opened the door for us. “Who you got there, Betty Ann?” he said in a quiet voice, kind of firm, but not sore at seeing us there.
    “A couple of fellas from Plunket City. They ran away from an orphan home and shot somebody.”
    “We didn’t shoot anybody,” I said quickly. “We got shot at.”
    “Somebody got shot, anyway. They’re mighty hungry. They said they’d help me load the hay if we fed them.”
    “We’ll pay for it,” I said. “We got a pile of dough.” I took the