“Ye-es,” Mac busied himself holding in the horses while they passed a returning “century run” of bicycles, each one with a different kind of bell and a different light. “Plagued bikes!—jes’ clutter up the road. No pleasure drivin’ no more.” After the main body had passed, the stragglers were easy to avoid. “Oh, he’s all right—I guess, but—well, he talks a lot, now; don’t he?”
“His talk is rich,” said Blynn. “It has the charm of straight thinking, unbiased thinking. He’s travelled a great deal and is naturally observant. I don’t always agree with him, but I like his talk.”
“Do y’ understan’ all he’s drivin’ at?” Mac seemed incredulous of anyone doing that. “An’ d’ y’ think he understan’s it ’isself?”
Without waiting for an answer to his question, Mac went on:
“Now, I don’t say I don’t like him, ’cause I do. He stands by Miss Gorgas, as if she might be his own daughter. That’s all right. But—” Mac glanced back furtively—“he gives me a lot o’ talk about marriage, which, as bein’ a respectable marri’d man, m’self, I’m not takin’ no stock in. Wimmen may be one thing, and wimmen may be another; but marri’d is marri’d—that’s my way o’ thinkin’. It’s the way I was brung up and I sticks to it. He’s got migh-ty funny notions about marriage—migh-ty funny. It’s my opinion, and it’s me wife’s opinion, that he ain’t never marri’d to th’t little woman in the glen. Mind, I’m not asayin’ it is nor it taint so. All that I know is ’e don’t believe much in marriage. Dangerous character, I call ’im; but, I do like to have ’im aroun’.... Why, he don’t believe in property, nor money, nor the church nor nothin’. He says he thinks God is interested in gnats and horseflies! Think o’ that, now!... I was pullin’ up weeds in the garden once, and he looked at me and laughed. ‘Why you change all God’s plans for, you ol’ Mac?’ he sez. ‘Takes a lot o’ time to make nice clean weed. You don’t like the way the Lord made the earth, eh? In six day,’ he sez, ‘the Lord created heaven and earth and all that therein is, and ol’ Mac he spend all his life pullin’ it up and makin’ it better. An’ w’at you grow?’ he sez. ‘Ugh! tomat! ugh! Gott,’ he sez, ‘spoil ni-ce fre-sh weed for ol’ tomat! ugh!’ and he makes faces and waves ’is hands.... Now, w’at you agoin’ to do with a feller like that?”
“Don’t do anything,” laughed Blynn. “Just enjoy him.”
“An’ he’s a anarchist, too,” Mac’s head shook very dolefully at that. “Sez he is, ’imself. Sez he’s as much anarchist as anything. That’s purt-ty bad, Mr. Blynn. Herr Most and all them Chicago fellers! Um! An’ y’ can’t help likin’ ’im! I’d do almost anything for Bardek—think o’ that, now!—most anything—I hev already lied for him!—think o’ that, now, him as good as an anarchist and me a respectable marri’d man!”
Out of the dark of Cresheim road came a sonorous voice. It was far off, moving toward them. The song was evidently improvised, both words and music. The refrain, which had been more carefully worked up, came clear across the night.
“Oh, boards and plaster!
Boards and plaster!