"What do you call that?" the boy shouted back.
"Prospecting engine for swamp use," answered the driver. "Don't you swampers ever get the news?"
The car, or whatever it was, moved on downstream and so out of sight.
"Now I wonder what that was," Val said aloud as his mount sidled toward the center of the road. The hound-dog came up and sat down to kick a patch of flea-invaded territory which lay behind his left ear. Again the morning was quiet.
But not for long. A mud-spattered car came around the bend in the road and headed at Val, going a good pace for the dirt surfacing. Before it quite reached him it stopped and the driver stuck his head out of the window.
"Hey, you, move over! Whatya tryin' to do—break somebody's neck?"
Val surveyed him with interest. The man was, perhaps, Rupert's age, a small, thin fellow with thick black hair and the white seam of an old scar beneath his left eye.
"This is," the boy replied, "a private road."
"Yeah," he snarled, "I know. And I'm the owner. So get your hobby-horse going and beat it, kid."
Val shifted in the saddle and stared down at him.