Casey chanced to have almost that much coming to him out of the business, so that he would not be lending Bill’s money.  He watched the lean Smith fill in the amount and sign the note, identifying the truck by its engine and license numbers, and he went and borrowed fifteen dollars from the proprietor of the Oasis and made up the amount.  There was a train at noon, and from his garage door he watched the Smith family start off across the lava rocks to the depot, each one laden with bundles and disreputable grips, the spotted dog trotting optimistically ahead of the party with his pink tongue draped over the right side of his mouth.  Smith turned, the baby in his arms, and called back casually to Casey: 

“Yuh better tie up them two milk goats when yuh milk ’em.  They won’t stand if yuh don’t.”

Casey’s jaw sagged.  He had not thought of the goats.  Indeed, the last two days they had not troubled him except by their bleating at dawn.  Humbolt and Greeley had grazed them over by the railroad track so that they could watch the trains go by.  Casey looked and saw that the goats were still over there where they had been driven early.  He took off his hat and rubbed his palm reflectively over the back of his head, set the hat on his head with a pronounced tilt over one eyebrow, and reached for his plug of tobacco.

“Oh, darn the goats!  Me milkin’ goats!  Well, now, Casey Ryan never milked no goats, an’ he ain’t goin’ to milk no goats!  You can ask anybody if they think’t he will.”

Casey was very busy that day, and he had no dull-eyed Juan to do certain menial tasks about the cars that stopped before his garage.  Nevertheless he kept an eye on the station of Patmos until the westbound train had come and had departed, and on the rough road between the railroad and the garage for another half hour, until he was sure that the Smith family were not coming back.  Then he went more cheerfully about his work, now and then glancing, perhaps, at the truck which had been driven into the rear of the garage where it was very much in his way, but was safe from pilfering fingers.  It was not such a bad truck, give it new tires.  Casey had already figured the price at which he could probably sell it, on an easy payment plan, to the man who hauled water for Patmos.  It was more than the amount of his loan, naturally.  By noon he was rather hoping the “Smith Bros.” would fail to take up that note.

Casey, you see, was not counting the goats at all.  He had a vague idea that, while they were nominally a part of the security, they were actually of no importance whatever.  They would run loose until Smith came after them, he guessed.  He did not intend to milk any nanny goats, so that settled the goat question for Casey.