bed, regretting the preposterous fanlike spread of the corncrib walls.
Nothing walled should be smaller at the floor than it was at the top.
It gave one a hopeless feeling of constriction. The feeling colored
his dreams. Kenny found himself hazily adrift in an inquisitorial
corncrib made of bars of moon-plated silver. They pressed in upon him
ever tighter and tighter until with a mighty sweep of his arms he burst
them all asunder.

He awoke at an undesirable hour, convinced that another farmer was
getting up. The world was a mournful gray. At the end of the corncrib
a head was peering in. Kenny turned his searchlight on it and had a
moment of doubt. The man was facially endowed for anything but virtue.
He was likely getting in--not up.

"Hum!" said Kenny suspiciously. "Are you coming in, my good friend, or
are you going out?"

"I'm comin' into my own corncrib, damn you!" shouted the farmer with
unexpected malevolence, "and you're going out!"

Kenny, resistant, knew instantly that he was not. He sat up.

"The acoustics, Silas," he said with cold disapproval, "are excellent.
Therefore--"

It was impossible to finish. The farmer, finding the name offensively
rustic, roared into the corncrib that Kenny was a hobo without future
hope of heaven. He and the corncrib, it seemed, knew the genus well.
Indeed, he looked in the corncrib for hope-lorn hoboes with the same
regularity that he looked in the hay for eggs.