Butch nodded.
“I figured.”
“I called someone. He said he could come back in two weeks.”
“You don’t have two weeks.”
Phil removed his cap.
Rubbed his forehead.
And stared at the machinery.
Then Butch said something that finally broke through his pride.
“There’s a man eleven miles from here who knows everything about that irrigation system.”
Phil lowered his eyes.
“I know.”
“Then why aren’t you calling him?”
Phil hesitated.
Finally, he admitted the truth.
“Because Dad left me the farm and gave Wade an old truck. How am I supposed to drive over there and ask him to help?”
Butch considered that.
Then replied, “The same way he’d have to come asking you. Slowly, with your hat in your hands.”
That evening, Phil drove to my house.
I was outside servicing the feed truck when I heard tires crunching along our gravel driveway.
I turned.
