"Some people call it that."
"Whar'd ye find the dog?"
"Over beyond Cressman. He made himself at home with us."
Jeff put his own plate on the table and began to eat. Pete mopped up the
last of his breakfast with a crust of bread, plopped it into his mouth,
and licked his fingers. That done, he picked up the conversation where
it had been dropped.
"Take care he ain't kil't."
"Take care who isn't killed?"
"The dog. He turned right snarly after Blazer was kil't. Bill Ellis'd a
shot him if he hadn't took a mind to run away."
"Did he hurt anybody?"
"Nao. But he had a mind to."
Pete leaned back, looking at the ceiling and cleaning his teeth with his
tongue. He asked suddenly, "Whar'd ye get the young'un?"
For a moment Jeff fumbled. But Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd., had taught
him that it was not a good idea to be at a loss long enough to let
anyone else think too far ahead of him. He said glibly, "Dan was farmed
out to me."
Jeff referred to the common practice of placing with accredited people
who would support them, youngsters who had no other place to turn. Dan
glared. Jeff did not look at him.
Pete Whitney said, "You git a smart lot of work out'en a farmed-out
young'un if you whomp him to it."
Jeff's next words erased Dan's glare. "Dan doesn't need 'whomping.'
We're full partners."
"Aoh."
There was another silence. Finally Pete Whitney asked, "What ye
peddlin?"
"What do you need?"
"I ast you."
"Cash or swap?"
"Swap." Pete looked surprised that anyone should think he had cash.
"What can you swap?"
Pete reached inside his shirt and drew out a knife. It was much cruder
than the works of art Jeff had had from Bart Whitney. But it was sturdy,
and the blade, Jeff thought wryly, was certainly keen enough to
penetrate anything that Pete might have reason to stab. Since there was
a buyer for everything, it stood to reason that there would be a buyer
for Pete's knife. Jeff went to his pack, took out a cheap jackknife, a
compass and a wrapped parcel. He extended the knife.
"I'll swap even for this."
Pete accepted the knife, opened it, tried the blade on the back of his
horny hand, and passed it back.
"Nao. That piddlin' thin'd bend on rabbit fur."
Enjoying himself, as he always did when bartering, Jeff handed the
compass over. Pete looked at it. Puzzled, he glanced back at Jeff.
"Do it tell the hour?"
Dan laughed. Jeff explained. "It's called a compass. See? The needle
always points north. Anyone who carries this can tell any direction at
all."