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possibly know?”

        “He said he didn’t hold with book learning,” Mamma said. “The man is impossible.”

        I was one hundred percent in favor of Mr. Blake. Any father who didn’t want his kid to go to school was all right for my money.

        “There is nothing we can do about it,” Papa said. “It is Mr. Blake’s business how he raises his daughter.”

     
        Mamma stood up with that look of determination on her face I’d seen so many times. “I am going to make it my business, and you are going to help me. We are going to force Mr. Blake to make his daughter go to school.”

    “How?” Papa asked.

        “You will go see Calvin Whitlock and other members of the school board this afternoon and convince them it is to the best interests of Dotty Blake that she get an education,” Mamma said.

        When Papa returned home late that afternoon, he seemed in good spirits.

    “Well?” Mamma asked.

        “It is all set,” Papa said. “Calvin and the members of the school board, along with Mark representing the law, will call on Mr. Blake in the morning. They will tell him the law forces all children to attend school through the sixth grade. Blake can’t read, so there is no way for him to look up the law. Jerry Stout and others Blake might ask about it have all agreed to cooperate.”

        The next morning Mr. Whitlock entered our one-room schoolhouse looking very distinguished with his gray, muttonchop side whiskers. He was accompanied by Dotty Blake and her father. Mr. Blake had yellow hair and a yellow mustache. His face was burned as brown as an Indian’s skin. He was hobbling on a homemade crutch.

        “This is Dorthea Blake,” Mr. Whitlock said to Mr. Standish. “She has never been to school. You will have to start her in the first grade, and be patient with her.”

        Then Mr. Whitlock and Mr. Blake left. Dotty looked scared and was biting her lower lip. She was wearing her Levi britches, boy’s shirt, and cowboy boots. Our teacher showed her to a seat in the front row with the first graders.

     
    “Welcome to our school, Dorthea,” Mr. Standish said.

    “My name’s Dotty and not Dorthea,” she said.

        “Mr. Whitlock said your name was Dorthea, and that is what you will be called in school,” Mr. Standish said with authority.

        “Guess my pa knows my name better’n Mr. Whitlock,” Dotty said. “Pa calls me Dotty.”

        Mr. Standish sort of shrugged. “All right, Dotty, if that is the way you prefer it,” he said.

        Mr. Standish tried to include Dotty in the lessons for the first grade, but she just sat with her arms folded and wouldn’t answer him.

        When our teacher finally released us for the morning recess, Tom whispered to me, “That poor kid is in for a rough time.”

        Tom was right. No sooner had the kids got outside on the playground when they began making fun of Dotty. Sammy Leeds was the ringleader.

        “Are you a boy or a girl?” Sammy asked as all the kids crowded around her. “Can’t tell with those britches, boy’s shirt, and boots you’re wearing.”

        Then Marie Vinson put in her two cents. “Britches Dotty hasn’t got a dress to wear,” she shouted and then laughed.

        Christine Mackie kept the insults going. “Why didn’t your mother wash and curl your hair?” she asked.

    “Ain’t got no ma,” Dotty said. “She’s dead.”

        I thought that would make the kids ashamed, but it didn’t.

        Sammy laughed a .cruel laugh. “Britches Dotty can’t read or write,” he shouted. “Britches Dotty is dumb, dumb, dumb .”

    Then all the kids except Tom and me and Basil began to shout: “Britches Dotty is dumb, dumb, dumb !” Sammy was the worst of all, stepping right up close to her and shouting the insult right in her face. She pushed him away.

        “You stop makin’ fun of me, or you’ll be sorry,” she said with a wild look