“Well, Jerry,” Poppy spoke up, and at the sound of his voice I sort of cut short my cheering to listen to him, “what are we going to do?”
“If we believe in signs,” says I, “I guess we’re licked.”
“It’s a wonder Ma Doane didn’t put us wise to this,” the other grumbled. “Blame the luck!”
“Sh-h-h-h!” says I. “Get out your popgun. For here comes old Goliath, himself.”
Swinging toward us on high gear, with feet as big as canal boats, and dressed in faded blue overalls that were a mile too short for him, the giant, from whom I never once took my eyes, soon drew up beside our car. Say, that bird was tall, let me tell you. A regular walking Woolworth tower, and nothing else but. Nor was he skinny, like some unusually tall men. I guess not. His arms at the muscle part looked bigger around to me than my own body. What a brave little guy David must have been, I thought!
“Howdy, brothers,” came the throaty greeting, and getting a closer look at the giant I saw now that there was nothing in his sun-browned face to be afraid of. “Come fur?”
“Ten miles, more or less,” says Poppy, looking at the big one curiously.
“Pore road,” the giant waggled, looking down the sandy trail. “Awful pore road. But then we don’t need good roads ’round here, fur we never use ’em.”
“Does that sign tell the truth?” Poppy pointed.
“Supposedly, brother; supposedly.”