Hammond stifled indignant surprise. “I suppose you have something I can do?”
“Do?” There was something like a hiss in Acey Smith’s half-laugh. “Take in the scenery, I’d suggest. There’s a devil of a lot of it going to waste hereabouts.”
“There’s a mistake somewhere, Mr. Smith. I didn’t come out here to loaf, but to tackle a job and earn the money.”
The other smiled in better-natured scorn. “Say, Hammond,” he derided, “what are you trying to put over on a poor, benighted bush superintendent? You know as well as the scribe angel knows that Old Man J.J. isn’t forking you out the North Star’s good money for what you’re going to do, but for what you’ve done.”
Hammond, remembering a warning, became cautious. “Nevertheless,” he persisted, “I would at least like to make a show of earning the money.”
“That’s better,” approved Acey Smith. “Tell me what you did for a living before J.J. tucked you out here.”
Again Hammond felt the need of being guarded before those black, soul-searching eyes. “Lawyer,” he prevaricated.
“Full-fledged?”
“No, student.”
“H’m, hard-boiled is the only kind I could use. Oh, well, if you find it hard to keep your mind occupied you might camouflage as an extra check with the pole-counting squad. But your principal business, young man, will be doing as you damned well please, except when you get explicit orders to do otherwise.