"I got work to do," asserted Sube as he brought the mower to a standstill. "If you got an'thing to say to me, make it snappy."
"That's what I'm tryin' to do," whined Sim, "if you'll only hold your horses long enough. Now—now I got a sore hand, and now—I can't sprout p'tatoes very good; and now—what'll you take to sprout 'em?"
Sube glanced at his brother sharply. "Where you wanta go to-day?" he demanded.
Sim squirmed uneasily as he scrutinized the palm of his injured hand, looking in vain for something that even remotely resembled a sore spot, and digging diligently with his thumbnail in the hope of unearthing one. "Nowheres much," he replied finally.
"All right then! What you yappin' about? Go on back and do your work," advised Sube as he made a move to proceed with the lawn-mower.
"Aw, wait a min-ute! Can't you? Give a feller a chance to say some'pm! Can't you?"
"Well?" Sube rested on his lawn-mower expectantly.
"Now—now Ted Horner's comin' for me at ha'past nine to see—now—to see if I can—now—can go out to their farm to spend the day."
"Well?"
"Why, now—now—I thought maybe I could get you—"