“Are you paying his fine for your friend?” Wint asked coldly.
Rand said: “No, blast him! If he wants to get caught by a hick constable, let him take his medicine. Work it out.”
“I wouldn’t call Radabaugh a hick to his face,” Wint suggested in a mild voice, and Rand apologized.
“I didn’t mean a thing,” he said.
Wint, in a swift hurry to be done, told him: “You’re fined ten for assault, and five for profanity. And costs.”
“That’s all right,” Rand cheerfully agreed. “I’ll pay.”
Wint nodded, disgusted at the man because he submitted so tamely. He sat back in his chair, listening idly to what Routt was saying, paying no apparent heed. Rand settled his fines and costs with the clerk, shook hands with Routt, and departed. When he was gone, Wint sat up with new energy.
“I hope we’re rid of him for good,” he said.
“You are, I’ll say,” Routt told him. “He’s had all he wants.”
The carnival got out of town that day; but before he departed, Rand had a word with Kite, and Kite comforted him. “Don’t worry,” Kite said. “This won’t last. You’ll make a harvest here, next summer.”