The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner [44]
“I’d buy a horse and wagon,” the second said.
“Yes you would,” the others said.
“I would. I know where I can buy one for twenty-five dollars. I know the man.”
“Who is it?”
“That’s all right who it is. I can buy it for twenty-five dollars.”
“Yah,” the others said. “He dont know any such thing. He’s just talking.”
“Do you think so?” the boy said. They continued to jeer at him, but he said nothing more. He leaned on the rail, looking down at the trout which he had already spent, and suddenly the acrimony, the conflict, was gone from their voices, as if to them too it was as though he had captured the fish and bought his horse and wagon, they too partaking of that adult trait of being convinced of anything by an assumption of silent superiority. I suppose that people, using themselves and each other so much by words, are at least consistent in attributing wisdom to a still tongue, and for a while I could feel the other two seeking swiftly for some means by which to cope with him, to rob him of his horse and wagon.
“You couldn’t get twenty-five dollars for that pole,” the first said. “I bet anything you couldn’t.”
“He hasn’t caught that trout yet,” the third said suddenly, then they both cried:
“Yah, what’d I tell you? What’s the man’s name? I dare you to tell. There aint any such man.”
“Ah, shut up,” the second said. “Look. Here he comes again.” They leaned on the rail, motionless, identical, their poles slanting slenderly in the sunlight, also identical. The trout rose without haste, a shadow in faint wavering increase; again the little vortex faded slowly downstream. “Gee,” the first one murmured.
“We dont try to catch him anymore,” he said. “We just watch Boston folks that come out and try.”
“Is he the only fish in this pool?”
“Yes. He ran all the others out. The best place to fish around here is down at the Eddy.”
“No it aint,” the second said. “It’s better at Bigelow’s Mill two to one.” Then they argued for a while about which was the best fishing and then left off all of a sudden to watch the trout rise again and the broken swirl of water suck down a little of the sky. I asked how far it was to the nearest town. They told me.
“But the closest car line is that way,” the second said, pointing back down the road. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere. Just walking.”
“You from the college?”
“Yes. Are there any factories in that town?”
“Factories?” They looked at me.
“No,” the second said. “Not there.” They looked at my clothes. “You looking for work?”
“How about Bigelow’s Mill?” the third said. “That’s a factory.”
“Factory my eye. He means a sure enough factory.”
“One with a whistle,” I said. “I haven’t heard any one oclock whistles yet.”
“Oh,” the second said. “There’s a clock in the unitarial steeple. You can find out the time from that. Haven’t you got a watch on that chain?”
“I broke it this morning.” I showed them my watch. They examined it gravely.
“It’s still running,” the second said. “What does a watch like that cost?”
“It was a present,” I said. “My father gave it to me when I graduated from high school.”
“Are you a Canadian?” the third said. He had red hair.
“Canadian?”
“He dont talk like them,” the second said. “I’ve heard them talk. He talks like they do in minstrel shows.”
“Say,” the third said. “Aint you afraid he’ll hit you?”
“Hit me?”
“You said he talks like a colored man.”
“Ah, dry up,” the second said. “You can see the steeple when you get over that hill there.”
I thanked them. “I hope you have good luck. Only dont catch that old fellow down there. He deserves to be let alone.”
“Cant anybody catch that fish,” the first said. They leaned on the rail, looking down into the water, the three poles like three slanting threads of yellow fire in the sun. I walked upon my shadow, tramping it into the dappled shade of trees again. The road curved, mounting away from the water. It crossed the hill, then descended winding,