He walked slowly, thinking what he was going to say in the shop and now and then stopping to look absently at a store window. Block's Feed Company had a displeay of automatic chicken-killers--"So Timid Persons Can Kill Their Own Fowl" the sign over them read. Rayber wondered if many timid persons used them. As he neared the barber's, he could see obliquely through the door the man with the executive assurance was sitting in the corner reading a newspaper. Rayber went in and hung up his hat.
"Howdy," the barber said; "ain't this the hottest day in the year, though!"
"It's hot enough," Rayber said.
"Hunting season goon be over," the barber commented.
All right, Rayber wanted to say, let's get this thing going. He thought he would work into his argument from their remarks. The fat man hadn't noticed him.
"You should have seen the covy this dog of mine flushed the other day," the barber went on as Rayber got in the chair. "The birds spread once and we got four and they spread again and we got twa. That ain't bad."
"Never hunted quail," Rayber said hoarsely.
"There ain't nothing like taking a nigger and a hound dog and a gun and going after quail," the barber said. "You missed a lot out of life if you ain't had that."
Rayber cleared his throat and the barber went on
