Pym raised a grimy, sweating forehead.

"You, boy; easy, damn you! Hello, Vic!" and he propped that restless hind
foot on his inner thigh and extended a hand.

"Go an workin', Dug, because I can't stop; I just want a rope to catch Grey
Molly."

"You red devil--take that rope over there, Vic. You won't have no work
catchin' Molly. Which she's plumb tame. Stand still, damn you. I never seen
a Glencoe with any sense!--Where you goin', Vic? Up to the school?"

And his sweaty grin followed Vic as the latter went out with the coil of
rope over his shoulder. When Gregg reached the house, Nelly Pym hugged him,
which is the privilege of fat and forty, and then she sat at the foot of
the stairs and shouted up gossip while he shaved with frantic haste and
jumped into his best clothes. He answered her with monosyllables and only
half his mind.

"Finish up your work, Vic?"

"Nope."

"You sure worked yourself all thin. I hope somebody appreciates it." She
chuckled. "Ain't been sick, have you?"

"Say, who d'you think's in town? Sheriff Glass!"

This information sank in on him while he tugged at a boot at least a size
and half too small.