"This way." The rambling fellow turned to the right and started down the road, talking over his left shoulder:
"I'm the chauffeur of that blamed tractor—I told Old Benson I didn't know any more about it than he does of the New Jerusalem; but he put me at it anyhow.
"I'm a willin' cuss. But the main trouble with me is I ain't got no brains. If I had, I wouldn't be on this job, and if I was, I could fix the darn thing myself.
"My dad," continued the guide, "was purty strong on brains, but I didn't take after him much. If I was as posted on tractors as the old man was on hell fire, I wouldn't need you."
Something in this hill billy's tone stirred in Bob a sudden recollection.
"Was he a preacher?"
"Yep, named Foster, and I'm his wandering boy to-night."
Bob lifted his head and laughed. It was a queer world. He inquired about the trouble with the tractor.
"I sure hope you can fix it," said Noah Ezekiel. "Old Benson will swear bloody-murder if we don't get the cotton in before the tenth of April. He wants to unload the lease."
The sun was scarcely an hour high when the steady, energetic chuck, chuck of the tractor engine told Bob his work was done. He shut it off, and turned to Noah Ezekiel.