Behind the plate-glass window of the Security State Bank its president stood with his hands thrust deep in his trousers’ pockets watching the long train as, with much belching of smoke, it climbed the slight grade. There were moments when Mr. Wentz cursed the Fate that had promoted him from his washing machine, and this was one of them.
Neifkins, hunched in a leather chair in the banker’s office, had an obstinate look on his sunburned face.
“I’d give about half I’m worth if that was your stock goin’ out,” said Wentz, as he reseated himself at his desk.
Neifkins grunted.
“I heard you the first time you said that.” The stubborn look on his face increased. “When I’m ready to ship, I’ll ship. I know what I’m about—ME.”
Wentz did not look impressed by the boast.
Neifkins added in a surly tone:
“I don’t need no petticoat to show me how to handle sheep.”
Wentz answered with a shrug:
“Looks to me like you might follow a worse lead. She’s contracted for all the hay in sight and shoved the price on what’s left up to sixteen dollars in the stack. What you goin’ to do if you have to feed?”