Facing each other thus, an awkward silence fell, broken only by the heavy tread of the horses’ hoofs. They were almost half-way out there before the colonel thought of anything to say.
“The oats came on well this year, Carter,” he remarked at last, with forced cheerfulness. “Fine crop!”
Mr. Carter, whose feet still felt several sizes too large for his shoes, let his misery loose.
“I wouldn’t give a cent for the oat-crop,” he said bluntly. “I’m not a horse.”
The colonel, startled for a moment, exploded into laughter, but Mrs. Carter was shocked.
“Oh, Johnson!” she gasped, and then, anxious to propitiate the colonel, she plunged in desperately. “It’s been such a beautiful year,” she said anxiously. “I don’t think I ever remember a season when things held so well. Nothing looks rusty yet.”
The colonel rubbed his chin.
“Except old men, madam,” he remarked with a twinkle.
She laughed tremulously, winking back her tears.
“I feel like an old woman, colonel.”