Phil counted the brown bloodsuckers that clung to his fat calves. "Seven. Mean cusses, ain't they."
Jim worked with a sharp edged stone, scraping his thin shanks. "You've got fat to spare. They've had enough off of me today."
"I remember how crazy I was first time they got on me. Felt as if I had snakes." Phil rooted six of the suckers off his legs and paused at the seventh. "He's as skinny as you are, Still. I'll give him two minutes more to finish a square meal."
The two boys lay staring out at the pond.
"Have you gotta go to work, Still?" asked Phil.
"Yes," replied Jim. "Mother says I can't, though."
Phil waited more or less patiently. His mates had long since learned that Jim's silences were hard to break.
"But I'm going to get a job in the quarry as soon as I can keep from getting sick at my stomach every time I see a derrick."
"My dad says your—he—he always planned to send you through college," said Phil.