Some Buried Caesar

She wasn't within view. There were plenty of cows, black and white this time, and a few visitors further down the aisle, but no Nancy. I strolled along between the rows of hind ends. Toward the middle of the shed there was a partitioned com- partment on the left, containing no cow; but an instant's peep disclosed that it contained three other things: a large pile of straw with a pitchfork handle protruding from its center, Nancy Osgood, and Jimmy Pratt. I would have passed on, but I had been seen. Jimmy's voice was gruff and discourte- ous:

"Well?"

I shrugged. "Well enough. Hoping you are the same." I started to move on, but his voice came even gruffer:

"Wait and look and listen. The more you see and hear the more you can tell."

"Don't, Jimmy." Nancy sounded very distressed. She turned her eyes, more bloodshot than ever, in my direction: "Were you following me, Mr. Goodwin? What for?"

A couple of passers-by seemed disposed to.linger, so I stepped inside the stall to keep it in the family. "Yes," I told her, "I was. For about 40 seconds. I happened to see you enter this shed looking behind you for bloodhounds, and fol- lowed you out of curiosity." I surveyed young Pratt. "It's a good thing you're training for architecture instead of the diplomatic service. You lack suavity. If this is a clandestine rendezvous and you suspected I might report it, it might be better to rub me with salve than sandpaper."

He reached for his pocket. "Oh, in that case-"

I let him go on. His hand emerged with a modest roll, from which, with unsteady fingers, he peeled a ten. He thrust it at me with an objectionable smile and asked, "Will that do?"

"Swell." I took it. "Munificent." My first impulse was to stick it in the pocket of Nancy's jacket and tell her to buy stocking with it, but at that moment our party was joined by a lanky guy in overalls carrying a pitchfork. With only a glance at us he rammed the fork into the pile of straw and started to lift the load. I stopped him by shoving the $10 bill under his nose.

"Here, brother. I represent the exposition management. We've decided you fellows are overworked. Take this as an expression of our esteem."

He stared. "What's that?"

"Don't try to understand it, just take it. Redistribution of wealth. A form of communism."

"From the exposition management?"

"Right."

"I'll be domed. They must be crazy." He took the bill and stuffed it in his pocket. "Much obliged to you."