"True, true, but wait till I sell some of my land or until I sue some of these here trespassers. Then I'll have tires for her."
Lucius said no more, being occupied with a refractory cotter pin.
John looked again at the crazy figure, his torn mackinaw, patched overalls and rubbers that were bound to his sockless feet by twine. About the face was a look that was nothing less than guilt. It was as though Taylor's casual inspection had charged the old man with some misdeed.
"You lookin' for land, mister?"
"No, no land."
"I got some good land, if you are. Fine land; I'll sell reasonable, too."
"Paul Bunion himself couldn't stir up a dust on your land, Charley," said Lucius.
"Is that so? That's all you know. You'll get too flip sometime an' somebody'll give it to you in th' neck." With that retort Charley started on, pushing his safety, moving slowly.
"Batty in the knob," said the boy. "Pushes that bike all over the plains, an' has for years. He's an old bullyboy an' went cookoo when th' pine give out. That's what a young feller has to associate with here; that's one reason I'm goin' to Detroit. Le's have a drink."
John tried to protest, but Lucius showed temper and the attempt to dissuade him was not pressed. He drank and went on with his work.
Afternoon and the bottle were both nearly gone when the last bolt went into place and the motor responded to a turn of the crank. Taylor took the wheel in spite of the boy's remonstrance and they went on.
