The old man was interested. He looked at Sam and then out at the car window and began talking of his own beliefs, the substance of which Sam could not get.
“God is a spirit and lives in the growing corn,” said the old man, pointing out the window at the passing fields.
He began talking of churches and of ministers, against whom he was filled with bitterness.
“They are dodgers. They do not get at things. They are damned dodgers, pretending to be good,” he declared.
Sam talked of himself, saying that he was alone in the world and had money. He said that he wanted work in the open air, not for the money it would bring him, but because his paunch was large and his hand trembled in the morning.
“I’ve been drinking,” he said, “and I want to work hard day after day so that my muscles may become firm and sleep come to me at night.”
The old man thought that his son could find Sam a place.
“He’s a driver—Ed is,” he said, laughing, “and he won’t pay you much. Ed don’t let go of money. He’s a tight one.”
Night had come when they reached the town where Ed lived, and the three men walked over a bridge, beneath which roared a waterfall, toward the long poorly-lighted main street of the town and Ed’s hotel. Ed, a young, broad-shouldered man, with a dry cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, led the way. He had engaged Sam standing in the darkness on the station platform, accepting his story without comment.
“I’ll let you carry timbers and drive nails,” he said, “that will harden you up.”