say, goodgovermint."
"I won't say anything you can't understand," Rayber muttered and then felt foolish for showing his irritation. The fat man and the barber were grinning. "I'll see you Tuesday," Rayber said and left. He was disgusted with himself for saying he would give them reasons. Reasons would have to be worked out--systematically. He couldn't open his head in a second like they did. He wished to hell he could. He wished to hell "Mother Hubbard" weren't go accurate. He wished to hell Darmon spit tobacco juice. The reasons would have to be worked out--time and trouble. What was the matter with him? Why not work them out? He could make everything in that shop squirm if he put his mind to it.
By the time he got home, he had the beginnings of an outline for an argument. It would be filled in with no waste words, no big words--no easy job, he could see.
He got right to work on it. He worked on it until supper time and had four sentences--all crossed out. He got up once in the middle of the meal to go to his desk and change one. After supper he crossed the correction out.
"What is the matter with you?" his wife wanted to know.
"Not a thing," Rayber said, "not a thing. I just
