"Nuff said about that!" Bailey spoke with the gruffness of a shy man. "You done me good too, so call it square. Well, you think it over, that's all. No hurry! I'm there right along, and so's the Farm; and farmin' is as good, clean, pleasant a trade as a man can find—or so I hold, and I've farmed thirty years."
"I'll bet it is!" Pippin climbed down from the wagon, and the two men shook hands again, looking each other in the face with friendly eyes. "I'll bet it is, and I wouldn't wonder a mite but I might take you up some day, Mr. Bailey. I only want to make sure what it's meant I should do, and if it is farmin' I'd be real pleased, I wouldn't wonder. And anyway, I'll look you up some day, sir. I will, sure."
"So do! So do, son! Good luck to you, Pippin, if that's your name. Git up, Nelson!"
Pippin returned the greetings with enthusiasm, and Jacob Bailey drove off with many a backward wave and glance.
"Real nice man!" said Pippin. "Ain't it great meetin' up with folks like that? Now behooves me hasten just a mite, if I'm goin' to get to Kingdom before sundown! He said 'twas about a mile further. Hello! What's goin' on here?"
Pippin was not to get to Kingdom before sundown. He stopped short. A man was lying beside the road, motionless, his feet in the ditch, his head on a tuft of grass: asleep, it seemed. An elderly man, gray and wizened, his face seamed with wrinkles of greed and cunning. Near him on the dusty grass lay a scissor-grinder's wheel. Pippin bent over him, looked, looked again, then knelt down in the dust.
"It's Nipper Crewe!" he said. "He's—no, he isn't! Hi, there! Crewe! Hold up! What's the matter?"
"Some kind of fit!" said Pippin. "There's no liquor in him. Here, Crewe, wake up!"
He shook the man gently: the lids quivered, opened; the bleared eyes wandered, then fixed, and recognition crept into them.
"Pippin!" he said faintly.