Farr found a half-finished stone bridge under the hill. A paunchy boss
with underset jaw and overhanging upper lip was profanely urging his
helpers back to their jobs.

"Fifteen minutes before knock-off time--fifteen minutes! You can't help
that man by standing around and doing his grunting for him. Get busy!"

The men lifted their tools slowly and sullenly.

"It's hell what can happen when you're fifteen days behind on a
contract, with county commissioners waiting and anxious to grab off a
penalty," declared the boss, to nobody in particular. "One man bunged,
and four to lug him home, and the rest of the crew taking a sympathetic
vacation!"

Farr, sauntering, swung off the highway down the lane leading to the
temporary bridge.

"Here, you long-horned steer, want a job?" called the contractor from
his rostrum on the granite block.

"No, my Sussex shote, I do not!"

"Damnation! You dare to call me names, you hobo?"

"Yes," returned Farr, quite simply.

"Well, quit it. I need men here. You're husky. Two dollars a day, even
if you're not a regular mason."