“I don’t get you.”
“It’s not because my face is dirty, or that she would care—she’s pure gold—but because it’s part of my job to do that.”
“All right; you know your cards; I don’t.”
Billy’s eyes twinkled. “This is the fight,” he waved his hand around toward the sweating, bending crew; “and not letting her see me is the holding on. See?”
The philosopher smiled. “You’ve caught on, all right.”
That night after work, and supper, and when Billy was trudging down the hill to get the car for home, he met the machine again. He tried to dodge it for workmen were passing, some lounging along the dusty road in groups.
“What do you mean, Billy Boy, by refusing to speak to me?”
May Nell saw him and ordered the driver to stop. “What do you mean, Billy Boy, by refusing to speak to me? I saw you this afternoon. Your shoe didn’t need—”
“Miss Smith, I—”