The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner [95]
“It wont do you any good if they have broke up,” I says. “They’ll have to hitch up and take out to get home by midnight as it is.”
“Well,” he says. “They enjoy it. Let them spend a little money on a show now and then. A hill farmer works pretty hard and gets mighty little for it.”
“There’s no law making them farm in the hills,” I says. “Or anywhere else.”
“Where would you and me be, if it wasn’t for the farmers?” he says.
“I’d be home right now,” I says. “Lying down, with an ice pack on my head.”
“You have these headaches too often,” he says. “Why dont you have your teeth examined good? Did he go over them all this morning?”
“Did who?” I says.
“You said you went to the dentist this morning.”
“Do you object to my having the headache on your time?” I says. “Is that it?” They were crossing the alley now, coming up from the show.
“There they come,” he says. “I reckon I better get up front.” He went on. It’s a curious thing how, no matter what’s wrong with you, a man’ll tell you to have your teeth examined and a woman’ll tell you to get married. It always takes a man that never made much at any thing to tell you how to run your business, though. Like these college professors without a whole pair of socks to his name, telling you how to make a million in ten years, and a woman that couldn’t even get a husband can always tell you how to raise a family.
Old man Job came up with the wagon. After a while he got through wrapping the lines around the whip socket.
“Well,” I says. “Was it a good show?”
“I aint been yit,” he says. “But I kin be arrested in dat tent tonight, dough.”
“Like hell you haven’t,” I says. “You’ve been away from here since three oclock. Mr Earl was just back here looking for you.”
“I been tendin to my business,” he says. “Mr Earl knows whar I been.”
“You may can fool him,” I says. “I wont tell on you.”
“Den he’s de onliest man here I’d try to fool,” he says. “Whut I want to waste my time foolin a man whut I dont keer whether I sees him Sat’dy night er not? I wont try to fool you,” he says. “You too smart fer me. Yes, suh,” he says, looking busy as hell, putting five or six little packages into the wagon. “You’s too smart fer me. Aint a man in dis town kin keep up wid you fer smartness. You fools a man whut so smart he cant even keep up wid hisself,” he says, getting in the wagon and unwrapping the reins.
“Who’s that?” I says.
“Dat’s Mr Jason Compson,” he says. “Git up dar, Dan!”
One of the wheels was just about to come off. I watched to see if he’d get out of the alley before it did. Just turn any vehicle over to a nigger, though. I says that old rattletrap’s just an eyesore, yet you’ll keep it standing there in the carriage house a hundred years just so that boy can ride to the cemetery once a week. I says he’s not the first fellow that’ll have to do things he doesn’t want to. I’d make him ride in that car like a civilised man or stay at home. What does he know about where he goes or what he goes in, and us keeping a carriage and a horse so he can take a ride on Sunday afternoon.
A lot Job cared whether the wheel came off or not, long as he wouldn’t