We watch the horse-Granny and Junior pedal dilengently off into the gravel haze of the side road. It takes awhile but veventually they disappear.
I shrug and Weenerman and myself climb back into the buck-truck to continue our quest for theOld Horse Farmer’s Place,
I start the truck up, and let the clutch out, there is a squeal as the clutch takes on the unaccustommed burden of the Rodney-trailer full of cement blocks.
"Don’t worry, I’ll fix it," Weenerman reassures me.
"It’ll need it," I remark tersely.
"I’m sure they make Clutch-Repair bondo in a tube," the Weenerman makes his expert diagnosis betweens draughts of murky green pop.