In his leather coat, high-laced officer's boots, smoking a cigarette in an amber holder, John Taylor looked much out of place as he stood on that ridge. He felt out of place, too. The dirty little town, the dreary people, the coarseness beneath Harris' geniality, the unavoidable gabble of the amiable Lucius, the mystery gathering about his errand, all combined to depress and make him apprehensive—
"All grubbers!" he muttered. "Grubbers—with no chance—except Harris; and he has to live with them!"
He threw away his cigarette with a grimace and walked back to the car.
Lucius was not drunk; not yet. He claimed to have located the trouble and Taylor watched him work so closely that he did not see the old man coming out of a side road until he was at his elbow.
"Hello there, Charley Stump!" cried Lucius.
John looked up. A ragged ancient, with gray hair and watery eyes stood by him. He was resting on a bicycle, or at least a part of a bicycle. The handle bars were bent and twisted; the frame was rust flaked. In place of a saddle a wadded gunny sack was bound to the seat post. There were no tires on the splintered rims, but quarter-inch rope had been wound around and around them.
"Hello, Lucius," quavered the old man. "Broke down, eh? That's where a safety comes in handy," stroking the handle bars. "So long as you go a safety goes."
"That bike won't go a hell of a ways."
"True, true, Lucius; when I get my tires though, you watch me scorch!"
"You've been talkin' about tires ever since the winter of the blue snow."
