Bat had sat down, still sleepily watchful through the tortoise-shell eyes, but a bit wilted in the heat. Some of the men swinging corduroy and blue jean legs from the station platform evidently perpetrated a pleasantry; for there was a loud guffaw, and a shower of tobacco wads into the middle of the road.
"Know how we get high grade corn, high grade rose like this American Beauty: in fact, high grade anything? Well, I'll tell you. It's the same process that brings out high grade men. You go into a field of corn. You pick out best specimens. You keep that for seed, special care, special fine ground, special careful cultivation. You let the others go, feed 'em to the hogs, understand, Bat? It's the same with the roses, and the same with men; and now where's your fine theory of all men equal?"
As Bat did not care to remind the Senator that his own career from the ghetto up contradicted all this fine philosophy, he left the question unanswered.
Moyese pushed the glasses up on his nose and returned to the map.
"How many homesteaders did you succeed in nabbing out of that last train-load?"
"About a hundred, Senator! I've got the list of 'em here . . . haven't counted, but think it will tally up about a hundred."
"What are they, Germans?"
"No, Swedes."
Moyese laughed. "Thrifty beggars will job round and earn double while they're operating for us! Got good big families, Bat?"
It was the turn of the handy man to laugh. "I filed one fellow and eight kids for one hundred and sixty acres each."