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flitted across his face. “You must have seen the boys out with their telescope, or whatever they call it, and there’s still a stake or two by the swamp bog from before the last election.”
    â€œHow many elections does that make that they staked it off and still nothing done?”
    John Cobly’s grin went into a smile. He shook his head. “Can’t remember that far back. We’re just not voting the right way, I guess, Harv.”
    The Old Man’s face shot full toward John. “They talking election again?”
    â€œNever heard anything about it yet, but they could call one near as next fall. New government might do something, but the Liberals will probably go in again. Not that we don’t need something decent. The whole bloody road is nothing but a swamp, you might as well say, spring and fall. Kills the heck out of a horse. Lose a horse, rig and all by the swamp bog.
    â€œNo doubt about that,” The Old Man said. “But, oh well, we’re getting by. Could be a lot worse, I guess.”
    â€œThings are going to have to change, though,” John Cobly said. “More people going tractor these days and that road ain’t no good for a tractor.”
    â€œI suppose that’ll be the next thing. Think they’re any good?”
    â€œOh yeah, they make a difference, work wise. You know yourself, Harv. A man can walk forty miles a day behind a plow, or a light harrows, keeping three ornery horses in line, when he could be riding along, sitting pretty. And them engines, Harv. You know yourself, they’re up and down, choke a sheaf into a mill too fast, jam a log into a saw blade and they just about quit, and you have to wait on them to get up speed. Them little tractors just purr along like a kitten, steady as she goes.”
    â€œYeah, I seen one in a mud hole on the way to town one day. Albert Champs, I think. It was purring pretty good, all right. Looked like it was trying to learn the foxtrot.”
    John Cobly sat bolt upright. “I’m talking about working the land. Just think of how much time you use up, harnessing and hitching. With a tractor, you just hook on when you want, no muss, no fuss, no manure, no feeding and resting. Keep the gas to her, change the oil now and then, a little grease, and she’ll work all night if you want.”
    John Cobly took a last heavy drag from his cigarette butt and then went to the stove and poked it through a draft hole. He went back to the armchair, took a match from his pocket, flopped back down, and began digging wax out of his right ear with the match head.
    â€œStill going to need a horse,” The Old Man said. “How are you going to haul potatoes in the wintertime? They can’t even keep the front road open with them truck affairs. The first couple of good storms, and roads like ours are choked up so bad in the cuttings they’d have to use a bulldozer in places.”
    â€œThere’s a new one coming out,” John Cobly said. “Breaks in the middle. Fred James said he seen one up in Toronto at one of them shows for machinery, more engine than anything else. They’ll be here before long.”
    â€œWhat’s a tractor like with horse machinery?” The Old Man said.
    â€œThey’re good, geared for them. Just cut off the poles and bolt on some kind of attachment for the draw bar—don’t have to be fancy. Pretty much need a trip plow so you don’t have to get off at the headland and put the shears in and out. Might as well throw in a blower attachment for your thresher. Thresh in the fall. Good idea to get a trailer, too.”
    The Old Man crushed out his cigarette butt between his thumb and forefinger and set it on the window ledge. “What do you need a trailer for?”
    â€œBecause they say it takes some kind of genius to back a wagon with one of those things.”
    â€œWhat else should you might as well get?”
    John Cobly smirked.