the trucks was not his father, but to let the assertion pass without contradiction would end the conversation.
"Like bunk he is!" he answered.
They advanced again in silence. The driver reached finally into the hip pocket of his trousers and extracted a worn billfold. He opened it and took out a worn slip of newspaper.
"Can you read?" he asked.
"Of course," Peewee said promptly.
"All right. You say the old man ain't dead; I say he is. Who's right?"
He gave the slip to the boy, who unfolded it and looked at it. The article was rather long; it had been defaced by carrying so that Peewee could not read the smaller printing, but the larger letters at the top were plain. He spelled them out: "Jeifrey Markyn, Second, one of the builders of Chicago, dies in Pasadena, California."
"I say, who's right?" the man insisted.
"You are," said Peewee.
"He was a good guy," the man asserted—"a good guy. He give me my first job. When
