Swell car--poor man
with no eats, not even a two-bits flop for tonight. Could yuh loosen up
and slip me just a couple bones?"

Mr. Boltwood intervened. He looked as uncomfortable as Claire. "We'll
see. It's rather against my principles to give money to an able-bodied
man like you, even though it is a pleasure to give you a ride----"

"Sure! Don't cost you one red cent!"

"--and if I could help you get a job, though of course---- Being a
stranger out here---- Seems strange to me, though," Mr. Boltwood
struggled on, "that a strong fellow like you should be utterly
destitute, when I see all these farmers able to have cars----"

Their guest instantly abandoned his attitude of supplication for one of
boasting: "Destitute? Who the hell said I was destitute, heh?" He was
snarling across Claire at Mr. Boltwood. His wet face was five inches
from hers. She drew her head as far back as she could. She was sure that
the man completely appreciated her distaste, for his eyes popped with
amusement before he roared on:

"I got plenty of money! Just 'cause I'm hoofin' it---- I don't want no
charity from nobody! I could buy out half these Honyockers! I don't need
none of no man's money!" He was efficiently working himself into a rage.
"Who you calling destitute? All I wanted was an advance till pay day!
Got a check coming. You high-tone, kid-glove Eastern towerists want to
watch out who you go calling destitute. I bet I make a lot more money
than a lot of your four-flushin' friends!"

Claire wondered if she couldn't stop the car now, and tell him to get
off. But--that snapping eye was too vicious. Before he got off he would
say things--scarring, vile things, that would never heal in her brain.
Her father was murmuring, "Let's drop him," but she softly lied, "No.
His impertinence amuses me."

She drove on, and prayed that he would of himself leave his uncharitable
hosts at the next town.

The man was storming--with a very meek ending: "I'm tellin' you! I can
make money anywhere! I'm a crack machinist.... Give me two-bits for a
meal, anyway."

Mr. Boltwood reached in his change pocket. He had no quarter. He pulled
out a plump bill-fold. Without looking at the man, Claire could vision
his eyes glistening and his chops dripping as he stared at the hoard.
Mr. Boltwood handed him a dollar bill. "There, take that, and let's
change the subject," said Mr. Boltwood testily.

"All right, boss. Say, you haven't got a cartwheel instead of