Part 12 (1/2)
”Pack a cannon, don't you?”
”I don't think I quite understand.”
”Cannon! Gun! Revolver! Got a revolver, of course?”
”W-why, no.” She spoke uncomfortably. She was aware that his twinkling eyes were on her throat. His look made her feel unclean. She tried to think of some question which would lead the conversation to the less exclamatory subject of crops. They were on a curving shelf road beside a shallow valley. The road was one side of a horseshoe ten miles long. The unprotected edge of it dropped sharply to fields forty or fifty feet below.
”Prosperous-looking wheat down there,” she said.
”No. Not a bit!” His look seemed to add, ”And you know it--unless you're a fool!”
”Well, I didn't----”
”Make Glendive tonight?”
”At least that far.”
”Say, lady, how's the chance for borrowin' a couple of dollars? I was workin' for a Finnski back here a ways, and he did me dirt--holdin' out my wages on me till the end of the month.”
”Why, uh----”
It was Claire, not the man, who was embarra.s.sed.
He was snickering, ”Come on, don't be a tightwad. Swell car--poor man with no eats, not even a two-bits flop for tonight. Could yuh loosen up and slip me just a couple bones?”
Mr. Boltwood intervened. He looked as uncomfortable as Claire. ”We'll see. It's rather against my principles to give money to an able-bodied man like you, even though it is a pleasure to give you a ride----”
”Sure! Don't cost you one red cent!”
”--and if I could help you get a job, though of course---- Being a stranger out here---- Seems strange to me, though,” Mr. Boltwood struggled on, ”that a strong fellow like you should be utterly dest.i.tute, when I see all these farmers able to have cars----”
Their guest instantly abandoned his att.i.tude of supplication for one of boasting: ”Dest.i.tute? Who the h.e.l.l said I was dest.i.tute, heh?” He was snarling across Claire at Mr. Boltwood. His wet face was five inches from hers. She drew her head as far back as she could. She was sure that the man completely appreciated her distaste, for his eyes popped with amus.e.m.e.nt before he roared on:
”I got plenty of money! Just 'cause I'm hoofin' it---- I don't want no charity from n.o.body! I could buy out half these Honyockers! I don't need none of no man's money!” He was efficiently working himself into a rage.
”Who you calling dest.i.tute? All I wanted was an advance till pay day!
Got a check coming. You high-tone, kid-glove Eastern towerists want to watch out who you go calling dest.i.tute. I bet I make a lot more money than a lot of your four-flus.h.i.+n' friends!”
Claire wondered if she couldn't stop the car now, and tell him to get off. But--that snapping eye was too vicious. Before he got off he would say things--scarring, vile things, that would never heal in her brain.
Her father was murmuring, ”Let's drop him,” but she softly lied, ”No.
His impertinence amuses me.”
She drove on, and prayed that he would of himself leave his uncharitable hosts at the next town.
The man was storming--with a very meek ending: ”I'm tellin' you! I can make money anywhere! I'm a crack machinist.... Give me two-bits for a meal, anyway.”
Mr. Boltwood reached in his change pocket. He had no quarter. He pulled out a plump bill-fold. Without looking at the man, Claire could vision his eyes glistening and his chops dripping as he stared at the h.o.a.rd.
Mr. Boltwood handed him a dollar bill. ”There, take that, and let's change the subject,” said Mr. Boltwood testily.
”All right, boss. Say, you haven't got a cartwheel instead of this wrapping paper, have you? I like to feel my money in my pocket.”