His coat was off and his vest
unbuttoned to display a vast and billowing expanse of soiled white
shirt. In his hand was a palm-leaf fan, at his elbow swung an _olla_,
newspapers littered the ground or lay across his fat knees. When Bob and
Lejeune entered, he merely nodded surlily, and went on with his reading.
"Can I speak to you a moment on business?" asked Bob.
By way of answer the fat man dropped his paper, and mopped his brow.
"We've rented our sheep grazing to Mr. Lejeune, here, as I understand
we've been doing for some years. He tells me you have refused him
permission to cross the Forest Reserve with his flocks."
"That's right," grunted Plant.
"What for?"
"I believe, young man, granting permits is discretionary with the
Supervisor," stated that individual.
"I suppose so," agreed Bob. "But Mr. Lejeune has always had permission
before. What reason do you assign for refusing it?"
"Wilful trespass," wheezed Plant. "That's what, young man. His sheep
grazed over our line. He's lucky that I don't have him up before the
United States courts for damages as well."
Lejeune started to speak, but Bob motioned him to silence.
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