“I—was—sober!” cried Casey, measuring his words. Very nearly shouting them, in fact. The widow turned indifferently away and began to stir something on the stove, and did not look at him.
Casey went out, climbed the hill to his Ford, cranked it, and went larruping down the hill, out on the lake and, when he had traversed half its length, turned and steered a straight course across it. Where tracings of wheels described a wide circle he stopped and regarded them soberly. Then he began to swear, at nothing in particular but with a hearty enjoyment worthy a better pastime.
“Casey, you sure as hell have had one close call,” he remarked, when he could think of nothing new nor devilish to say. “You mighta run along, and run along, till you got married to her. Whadda I want a wife for, anyway? Sour-dough biscuits tastes pretty good, and Casey sure can make ’em.” He got out his pipe, filled it, and crammed down the tobacco, found a match, and leaned back smoking relishfully, one leg thrown up over the wheel.
“A man’s best friend is his Ford. You ask anybody,” he grinned, and blew a lot of smoke and gave the wheel an affectionate little twist.