The Light Machine

Tubby took his feet off the fender of the little stove in the back room of O’Connor’s Grocery and glared at his two friends aggressively.
“That ain’t so,” he declared. “That ain’t so, nohow.”
“Well he said,” the first man repeated, “as how that’s just the way it is—that light travels one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles in a second.”
“’Taint so,” said Tubby. “That’s too fast for anything to go.”
“That’s what he said,” the first man reiterated imperturbably. “One hundred and eighty-six thousand miles in a second— that’s what he said.”
“Well ’taint so,” Tubby repeated; he rose to his feet suddenly. “You can see light, can’t you?” he demanded.
“’Course I can see light. I ain’t blind.”
“Can you see a automobile when it’s going past a hundred miles a hour?” Tubby pointed a fat little forefinger directly into the first man’s face.
“Why, why, yes,” said the first man, surprised into confusion.
“And can you see the spokes of a automobile wheel when it’s going past a hundred miles a hour?”
The first man thought a moment. “Why, why, no,” he said finally.
Tubby lowered his forefinger. “Then that proves it ain’t so,” he declared triumphantly. “Nor you couldn’t see a bullet if I shot it past your nose, could you?”