"Good-morning, mister," I said, plumping myself down upon the mound he had made, and he, being much more impressionable than you would suppose from his Uranian appearance, replied.
"I swan, I like your cheek."
"It's a pleasant day," I said, because one is always expected to announce some result of observation of the atmosphere. It shows at once whether or not one is an idiot.
"I call it pretty danged hot," he returned, intelligently.
"Then why don't you get out of the sun?" I suggested, more to keep the conversation fluid than because I cared a bit.
"I'm a-goin' to," he answered, "just as soon as that goll-darned wagon comes." (A "goll-darned" wagon is, I think, a wagon without springs.)
"What are you going to do then?" I asked, beginning to fear I should be left alone again after all my trouble.
"Goin' home to dinner," he replied, and I at once said I would go with him.—You see, I had placed a little too much reliance on the egg.
"I dunno about that, but I guess it will be all right," he urged, hospitably, and presently the goll-darned wagon arrived with another man, who turned out to be the first one's son and who looked as though he bit.