"Guess I did," said Sloan as they drove away. "The reorganized G.&M.
decided they didn't want to carry him around the country on a pass."

Bannon pulled out one of the sheets and opened it on his knee. He whistled
as he read the first sentence, and swore appreciatively over the next.
When he had finished, he buttoned the waterproof apron and rubbed his wet
hands over his knees. "It's grand," he said. "I never saw anything like
it."

Sloan spoke to the mare. He had held her back as they jolted over the worn
pavement of cedar blocks, but now they had reached the city limits and
were starting out upon the rain-beaten sand. She was a tall, clean-limbed
sorrel, a Kentucky-bred Morgan, and as she settled into her stride, Bannon
watched her admiringly. Her wet flanks had the dull sheen of bronze.

"Don't tell me," said Sloan, "that Michigan roads are no good for driving.
You never had anything finer than this in your life." They sped along as
on velvet, noiselessly save when their wheels sliced through standing
pools of water. "She can keep this up till further notice, I suppose,"
said Bannon. Sloan nodded.

Soon they reached the first crossroad. There was a general store at one
corner, and, opposite, a blacksmith's shop. Sloan pulled up and Bannon
sprang out with a hammer, a mouthful of tacks, and three or four of the
posters. He put them up on the sheltered side of conspicuous trees, left
one with the storekeeper, and another with the smith. Then they drove on.

They made no pretence at conversation. Bannon seemed asleep save that he
was always ready with his hammer and his posters whenever Sloan halted the