Ma’s smile broadened.
“What’s makin’ you laff, Ma?” the old man asked.
“Jest nuthin’. I was figgerin’ if the gal could—if we could git her reply before spring opens.”
“Seems likely—if the boat don’t sink.”
Ma put the end of her pen in her mouth and eyed her man. Rube scratched his head and smoked hard. Neither spoke. At last the woman jerked out an impatient inquiry.
“Well?” she exclaimed.
Rube removed his pipe from his lips with great deliberation and eased himself in his chair.
“You’ve located the name of the farm on top, an’ the State, an’ the date?” he inquired, by way of gaining time.
“Guess I ain’t daft, Rube.”
“No.” The man spoke as though his answer were the result of deliberate thought. Then he cleared his 223 throat, took a long final pull at his pipe, removed it from his mouth, held it poised in the manner of one who has something of importance to say, and sat bolt upright. “Then I guess we ken git right on.” And having thus clearly marked their course he sat back and complacently surveyed his wife.