“Speaking to me? My name’s Rowland. First name’s Ira.”
“Well, don’t take on about it. You can’t help it. How’s crops?”
“It’s mostly lumbering where I come from. Cheney Falls, Maine, is my home.”
“Dew tell!” drawled the dark-haired youth. “What were you, a bump?”
“A bump?” asked Ira.
“Yes, don’t the logs up your way have bumps on them?”
“Oh, yes!” Ira smiled faintly. “The bumps grow on ’em, though. You—you don’t put ’em on.”
“Oh, you don’t? Thought you did. Well, what did you do in the lumbering line, then?”
“Well, last Winter I worked on the knots. It’s hard on your fingers, though.” He observed a hand reflectively. “I’m not going to do that again,” he added.
“Worked on the knots,” repeated the boy with the running shoes. “What do you mean by that?”