Lucia looked at him curiously. She was just twenty years old, but he was only two or three years older, and she was used to boys. His overalls were patched and faded from much washing; his blue shirt seemed fresh and clean; she thought him nice looking, and when she was sure of this, smiled most dazzlingly. Johnny tugged off his cap at that smile, and Lucia said precisely:
“How do you do?”
“Howdo, Miss Moore,” Johnny replied.
Her eyes widened in a pretty affectation. “Oh, how did you know my name?”
His lips were inscrutable, but his eyes were amused. “I guess everybody around here knows you.”
She pouted a little. “That doesn’t sound nice.”
“It don’t do any harm,” he said equably; and she was a little disappointed, had expected flattery. She pointed to the machine, whose engine still racketed.
“What’s that?”
“A duster,” he told her. “Kills the bugs on the trees.”
She made a grimace. “I should think it would. But what a nasty way to do. Smother them with that dust.”