“Right both times—there’s hay up here, and I’m Hampton,” drawled the man above.
“Huh! Bill, go up and take a look. I’ll see that nothin’ slides out down here.”
The red face of Bill, ex-Brooklynite, rose above the floor, glowering around.
“Well, whatcha doin’, Hampton?” he growled. “Thought ya was feedin’ the horse, but I notice he ain’t fed yet. Slow, ain’t ya?”
“Oh, I take my time. And right now I’m straightening up my sock. Ever have a sock wrinkle under your heel? Makes a beautiful blister. Horses can wait until my foot is fixed to suit me.”
Red-Face grunted and keenly surveyed the mow. Douglas coolly laced up the boot, as if completing what he had been doing when interrupted; stretched his leg, worked his foot up and down, and nodded as if satisfied.
“That feels better,” he announced. “Well, Statue of Liberty, what’s all the heavy thinking about? Or are you only trying to look wise and pretending to think?”
The other’s heavy mouth twisted in an ugly grin. He reached for a pitchfork standing near, yanked it free from the hay, inspected its long gleaming tines.
“Funny as a toothache, ain’t ya! One of these days, fella, that mouth o’ yourn’ll git ya into a box,” he predicted. “Right now I got other things to poke into. Jest come down off that hay—unless you’re coverin’ somethin’ up. That’s right. Ya mind like ma’s angel-face, don’t ya? Now watch what I toin up!”
With a leap he came up. And with a shrewd jab he drove the fork down into the hay on which Douglas had been sitting.