Another dozen puffs.
"Where you goin'?"
"I may get to San Francisco some day."
"You sure got some bit of pavement in front of you. I said it."
"Well, I guess it's never so bad but what it might be worse," I hinted.
He spat twice, puffed a few clouds, spat again; took another look at me, then glanced at my machine.
"You got some bird there," he ventured, and then added, as if to place the assertion beyond all doubt,—
"I said it."
I agreed that it ought to be able to get along.
"Yew said it.—See that bird thar?" he asked, pointing to his machine. "Waal, I guess she can move some too; she done eight thousand miles on them roads, an' I guess they warn't mos'ly booleyvards neither."