“Hello,” said Claude, bustling in as if he were in a great hurry.  “Have you seen Ernest Havel?  I thought I might find him in here.”

Bayliss swung round in his swivel chair to return a plough catalogue to the shelf.  “What would he be in here for?  Better look for him in the saloon.”  Nobody could put meaner insinuations into a slow, dry remark than Bayliss.

Claude’s cheeks flamed with anger.  As he turned away, he noticed something unusual about his brother’s face, but he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking him how he had got a black eye.  Ernest Havel was a Bohemian, and he usually drank a glass of beer when he came to town; but he was sober and thoughtful beyond the wont of young men.  From Bayliss’ drawl one might have supposed that the boy was a drunken loafer.

At that very moment Claude saw his friend on the other side of the street, following the wagon of trained dogs that brought up the rear of the procession.  He ran across, through a crowd of shouting youngsters, and caught Ernest by the arm.

“Hello, where are you off to?”

“I’m going to eat my lunch before show-time.  I left my wagon out by the pumping station, on the creek.  What about you?”

“I’ve got no program.  Can I go along?”

Ernest smiled.  “I expect.  I’ve got enough lunch for two.”

“Yes, I know.  You always have.  I’ll join you later.”

Claude would have liked to take Ernest to the hotel for dinner.  He had more than enough money in his pockets; and his father was a rich farmer.  In the Wheeler family a new thrasher or a new automobile was ordered without a question, but it was considered extravagant to go to a hotel for dinner.  If his father or Bayliss heard that he had been there-and Bayliss heard everything they would say he was putting on airs, and would get back at him.  He tried to excuse his cowardice to himself by saying that he was dirty and smelled of the hides; but in his heart he knew that he did not ask Ernest to go to the hotel with him because he had been so brought up that it would be difficult for him to do this simple thing.  He made some purchases at the fruit stand and the cigar counter, and then hurried out along the dusty road toward the pumping station.  Ernest’s wagon was standing under the shade of some willow trees, on a little sandy bottom half enclosed by a loop of the creek which curved like a horseshoe.  Claude threw himself on the sand beside the stream and wiped the dust from his hot face.  He felt he had now closed the door on his disagreeable morning.

Ernest produced his lunch basket.

“I got a couple bottles of beer cooling in the creek,” he said.  “I knew you wouldn’t want to go in a saloon.”

“Oh, forget it!” Claude muttered, ripping the cover off a jar of pickles.  He was nineteen years old, and he was afraid to go into a saloon, and his friend knew he was afraid.

After lunch, Claude took out a handful of good cigars he had bought at the drugstore.  Ernest, who couldn’t afford cigars, was pleased.  He lit one, and as he smoked he kept looking at it with an air of pride and turning it around between his fingers.