Johnny continued to smile provokingly. “Ain’t no one sittin’ up for you at home, is there, Aaron?”
The old man’s face went scarlet at this continued heckling.
“By God,” he cried, “I wisht I was twenty years younger! You’d stop your insolence.”
“That’s so, Aaron. I forgot that. I’m sorry.”
Johnny meant it, too. The old man was an almost helpless target. Johnny stooped to hide his chagrin and picked a little curl of wool from the floor.
The action had been unpremeditated, but as his fingers closed upon the tuft of wool it became charged with importance. Too late. Johnny tried to palm it. Aaron saw him.
“What’s that you’re pickin’ up?” he demanded.
“A piece of the golden fleece—I mean the creosoted fleece,” Johnny said with a laugh. “Want it?”
“’Course not, you idiot.”
“You’d better go downstairs, Johnny,” Kent advised. “You and Gallup remind me of a pair of clawin’ cats. If you ain’t got no respect for old age, you ought to have for the law, and them that represents it.”