“Send for me next time you have a well turned wrong side out and I'll prove it.”
“You're a tramp.”
Farr sauntered on.
“You're a tramp, and here's what we are doing to tramps in this county right now!”
Beyond them in the highway men were delving with shovels and hacking with mattocks. The men wore blue drilling overalls, obtrusively new, and their faces were pasty pale.
“We have taken 'em out of jail and put 'em doing honest work,” said the farmer. He pointed to guards who were marching to and fro with rifles in the hook of their arms. “Here's where you belong. I'm a constable of this town. I arrest you.”
The young man halted. His smile became provokingly compassionate as he stared down at the nickel badge the farmer was tapping.
“So you represent the law, do you?” inquired Farr.
“I do.”
“It's too bad you don't know more about the law, then. I have neither solicited alms, trespassed on private property, begged food, nor committed crime in your little kingdom, my good and great three-tailed bashaw. Here is a coin to clear the law.” He exhibited a silver piece. “I am sorry I cannot remain here and help you mend your ways—they seem to need it!”