Percy finished boring the hole and then returned to the buggy.
"Christ, that old man eats tobacco like a beast!" exclaimed the driver as Percy approached.
"Are you speaking to me?" asked Percy.
"Why, certainly."
"That is not my name, please," admonished Percy, "but I can tell you that I know Him well and that He is my best friend."
"What, old Al Jones?"
"No,—Christ," replied Percy, with a grieved expression plainly discernible.
"Oh," said the driver.
They drove past the Jones residence and out into the field beyond. The house one might have thought deserted except for the well-beaten paths and the presence of chickens in the yard. It was a large structure with two and a half stories. The cornice and window trimmings revealed the beauty and wealth of former days. Rare shrubs still grew in the spacious front yard, and gnarled remnants of orchard trees were to be seen in the rear. A dozen other buildings, large and small, occupied the background, some with the roofs partly fallen, others evidently still in use.
"How old do you suppose these buildings are?" asked Percy of the driver.