"Make your talk!"
"I've got five hundred that says I've got the best hen."
"There ain't goin' to be no foolishness about rules and sport, and hitchin' and hawin', is there? It's jest hen that counts!"
"Jest hen!" Hiram set his teeth hard.
"Five hundred it is," agreed Reeves. "But I need a fortni't to collect in some that's due me. Farmin' ain't such ready-money as the circus bus'ness."
"Take your fortni't! And we'll settle place later. And that's all, 'cause it makes me sick to stand anywhere within ten feet of you."
Hiram strode away across the fields, his wounded gladiator on his arm.
And, as it was near dinner-time, Cap'n Sproul trudged into his own house, his mien thoughtful and his air subdued.
On his next visit to Hiram, the Cap'n didn't know which was the most preoccupied—the showman sitting in the barn door at Imogene's feet, or the battered P.T. propped disconsolately on one leg. Both were gazing at the ground with far-away stare, and Hiram was not much more conversational than the rooster.
The next day Hiram drove into the Sproul dooryard and called out the Cap'n, refusing to get out of his wagon.