“No, hardly that,” says he. “I don’t care about carrying my rainbows around with me.”
“But look here, Beany,” says I. “You can’t stay here doin’ the poultry hermit act.”
“It’s the only thing I’m fit for,” says he; “so I must.”
“Then you’ve got to let us send you a few things occasionally,” says I. “I’ll look up your old boss and——”
“No, no!” says he. “I’m getting along all right. I’ve been a little lonesome; but I’ll pull through.”
“You ought to be doin’ some doctorin’, though,” says I.
He shrugs his shoulders again and waves one hand. “What’s the use?” says he. “They told me at the hospital there wasn’t any help. No, I’ll just stay here and plug it out by myself.”
Talk about clear grit, eh! And maybe you can frame up my feelin’s when he insists there ain’t a thing I can do for him. About then, too, I hears ’em shoutin’ from the car for me to come along, as they’re all ready to start again. So all I does is swap grips with Beany, get off some fool speech about wishin’ him luck, and leave him standin’ there in the potato field.
Somehow I didn’t enjoy the rest of that day’s run very much, and when they jollies me by askin’ who’s my scarecrow acquaintance I couldn’t work myself up to tellin’ ’em about him. But all I could think of was Beany back there pokin’ around alone in the fog that was settlin’ down thicker and thicker every day. And in the course of two or three hours I had a thought.
“Pinckney,” says I, as we was puttin’ up in Newport, “you know all sorts of crackerjacks. Got any expert eye doctors on your list?”