and his nose, which was a bit larger than average, anyway, was also red and swollen and undeniably runny. He had hay-fever bad.
Grimp apologized and sat down thoughtfully on the rock beside the policeman, who was one of his numerous cousins. He was about to mention that he had overheard Vellit using the expression when she and the policeman came through the big Leeth-flower orchard above the farm the other evening—at a much less leisurely rate than was their custom there. But he thought better of it. Vellit was the policeman’s girl for most of the year, but she broke their engagement regularly during hay-fever season and called him cousin instead of dearest.
“What are you doing here?” Grimp asked bluntly instead.
“Waiting,” said the policeman.
“For what?” said Grimp, with a sinking heart.
“Same individual you are, I guess,” the policeman told him, hauling out the handkerchief again. He blew. “This year she’s going to go right back where she came from or get pinched.”
“Who says so?” scowled Grimp.
“The Guardian, that’s who,” said the policeman. “That good enough for you?”
“He can’t do it!” Grimp said hotly. “It’s our farm, and she’s got all her licenses.”
“He’s had a whole year to think up a new list she’s got to have,” the policeman informed him. He fished in the breast-pocket of his uniform, pulled out a folded paper, and opened it.