had not even gone through the Frankfort High School, and he was
already a more successful man than Claude was ever likely to be.
Leonard did think these things, but he was fond of Claude, all
the same.
At sunset the car was speeding over a fine stretch of smooth road
across the level country that lay between Frankfort and the
rougher land along Lovely Creek. Leonard’s attention was largely
given up to admiring the faultless behaviour of his engine.
Presently he chuckled to himself and turned to Claude.
“I wonder if you’d take it all right if I told you a joke on
Bayliss?”
“I expect I would.” Claude’s tone was not at all eager.
“You saw Bayliss today? Notice anything queer about him, one eye
a little off colour? Did he tell you how he got it?”
“No. I didn’t ask him.”
“Just as well. A lot of people did ask him, though, and he said
he was hunting around his place for something in the dark and ran
into a reaper. Well, I’m the reaper!”
Claude looked interested. “You mean to say Bayliss was in a
fight?”
Leonard laughed. “Lord, no! Don’t you know Bayliss? I went in
there to pay a bill yesterday, and Susie Gray and another girl
came in to sell tickets for the firemen’s dinner. An advance man
for this circus was hanging around, and he began talking a little
smart,—nothing rough, but the way such fellows will. The girls
handed it back to him, and sold him three tickets and shut him
up. I couldn’t see how Susie thought so quick what to say. The
minute the girls went out Bayliss started knocking them; said all
the country girls were getting too fresh and knew more than they
ought to about managing sporty men and right there I reached out
and handed him one. I hit harder than I meant to. I meant to slap
him, not to give him a black eye. But you can’t always regulate
things, and I was hot all over. I waited for him to come back at
me. I’m bigger than he is, and I wanted to give him satisfaction.
Well, sir, he never moved a muscle! He stood there getting redder
and redder, and his eyes watered. I don’t say he cried, but his
eyes watered. ‘All right, Bayliss,’ said I. ‘Slow with your
fists, if that’s your principle; but slow with your tongue,
too,—especially when the parties mentioned aren’t present.’”
“Bayliss will never get over that,” was Claude’s only comment.
“He don’t have to!” Leonard threw up his head. “I’m a good
customer; he can like it or lump it, till the price of binding
twine goes down!”
For the next few minutes the driver was occupied with trying to
get up a long, rough hill on high gear. Sometimes he could
make that hill, and sometimes he couldn’t, and he was not able to
account for the difference. After he pulled the second lever with
some disgust and let the car amble on as she would, he noticed
that his companion was disconcerted.
“I’ll tell you what, Leonard,” Claude spoke in a strained voice,
“I think the fair thing for you to do is to get out here by the
road and give me a chance.”
Leonard swung his steering wheel savagely to pass a wagon on the
down side of the hill. “What the devil are you talking about,
boy?”
“You think you’ve got our measure all right, but you ought to
give me a chance first.”
Leonard looked down in amazement at his own big brown hands,
lying on the wheel. “You mortal fool kid, what would I be telling
you all this for, if I didn’t know you were another breed of
cats? I never thought you got on too well with Bayliss yourself.”
“I don’t, but I won’t have you thinking you can slap the men in
my family whenever you feel like it.” Claude knew that his
explanation sounded foolish, and his voice, in spite of all he
could do, was weak and angry.
Young Leonard Dawson saw he had hurt the boy’s feelings. “Lord,
Claude, I know you’re a fighter. Bayliss never was. I went to
school with him.”
The ride ended amicably, but Claude wouldn’t let Leonard take him
home. He jumped out of the car with a curt goodnight, and ran
across the dusky fields toward the light that shone from the
house on the hill. At the little bridge over the creek, he
stopped to get his breath and to be sure that he was outwardly
composed before he went in to see his mother.
“Ran against a reaper in the dark!” he muttered aloud, clenching
his fist.
Listening to the deep singing of the frogs, and to the distant
barking of the dogs up at the house, he grew calmer.
Nevertheless, he wondered why it was that one had sometimes to
feel responsible for the behaviour of people whose natures were
wholly antipathetic to one’s own.
III
The circus was on Saturday. The next morning Claude was standing
at his dresser, shaving. His beard was already strong, a shade
darker than his hair and not so red as his skin. His eyebrows and
long lashes were a pale corn-colour—made his blue eyes seem
lighter than they were, and, he thought, gave a look of shyness
and weakness to the upper part of his face. He was exactly the
sort of looking boy he didn’t want to be. He especially hated his
head,—so big that he had trouble in buying his hats, and
uncompromisingly square in shape; a perfect block-head. His name
was another source of humiliation. Claude: it was a “chump” name,
like Elmer and Roy; a hayseed name trying to be fine. In country
schools there was always a red-headed, warty-handed, runny-nosed
little boy who was called Claude. His good physique he took for
granted; smooth, muscular arms and legs, and strong shoulders, a
farmer boy might be supposed to have. Unfortunately he had none
of his father’s physical repose, and his strength often asserted
itself inharmoniously. The storms that went on in his mind
sometimes made him rise, or sit down, or lift something, more
violently than there was any apparent reason for his doing.
The household slept late on Sunday morning; even Mahailey did not
get up until seven. The general signal for breakfast was the
smell of doughnuts frying. This morning Ralph rolled out of bed
at the last minute and callously put on his clean underwear
without taking a bath. This cost him not one regret, though he
took time to polish his new ox-blood shoes tenderly with a pocket
handkerchief. He reached the table when all the others were half
through breakfast, and made his peace by genially asking his
mother if she didn’t want him to drive her to church in the car.
“I’d like to go if I can get the work done in time,” she said,
doubtfully glancing at the clock.
“Can’t Mahailey tend to things for you this morning?”
Mrs. Wheeler hesitated. “Everything but the separator, she can.
But she can’t fit all the parts together. It’s a good deal of
work, you know.”
“Now, Mother,” said Ralph good-humouredly, as he emptied the
syrup pitcher over his cakes, “you’re prejudiced. Nobody ever
thinks of skimming milk now-a-days. Every up-to-date farmer uses
a separator.”
Mrs. Wheeler’s pale eyes twinkled. “Mahailey and I will never be
quite up-to-date, Ralph. We’re old-fashioned, and I don’t know but
you’d better let us be. I could see the advantage of a separator
if we milked half-a-dozen cows. It’s a very ingenious machine.
But it’s a great deal more work to scald it and fit it together
than it was to take care of the milk in the old way.”
“It won’t be when you get used to it,” Ralph assured her. He was