lables distinct.

Neff hung up the fork, and John turned to lick at the old scabs
clotted from earlier jabs, taking sullen inventory to be sure there
were no new crimson leaks in his louse-infested hide. Until two months
ago, he had been just one more gregarious specimen of Mammalia
Rodentia Simplicidentata Myomorphia Muridae decumanus. Now he had
another name. Like each of his predecessors in the cage, he was a
large, brown rat called John--after Erd Neff's despised and deceased
father. Neff named all his rats John.

[Illustration]

"Well, don't get fat."

John finished the grain, pawed the air and squeaked, "Mur!"

"More, hey? You talk fine when you're hungry."

"Peef, mur, mur!" John begged. He did well with his vowels, but "I"
and "s" sounds were beyond him. He said "f" for "s". "L's" he ignored
entirely.

Neff gave him one more wheat head. "Okay, _get_ fat!"

He turned to the door, lifted the inside, mechanical latch, shoved
with his foot and snatched his revolver from his hip-holster. The
vault door opened ponderously revealing an empty warehouse. Neff
peeked through the crack between the hinges to clear the area
concealed by the door itself.

One hoodlum hopeful had hidden there. Spotting him through the crack,
Neff had simply beefed into the foot-thick slab of fireproof steel.
Inertial plus surprise had disposed of that one. Neff hadn't even had
to shoot.

* * * * *

Tonight there was no one. Funny. The wheat country was getting tame,
or else the tin-horns had learned their lesson. It was no secret that
Erd Neff never visited the local bank, yet it had been more than six
months since anyone tried to hold him up.

The local bank hated him plenty. He was costing them. His five loan
offices in the rich wheat county skimmed the cream of the mortgage
loan business. Of course, nowadays most people paid off their loans,
and the low interest rates he charged to lure the business barely paid
expenses. Yet, he still picked up an occasional foreclosure. Farmers
still got drunk, divorced, gambled, broke legs or committed suicide
once in awhile, and Neff's loan documents were ruthless about
extensions of time.

These foreclosed acreages he traded for grain elevators and warehouses
when crops were small and operators were desperate. Then came the
bumper years during and after World War II. Wheat on the ground and no
place to store it but in Erd Neff's sheds. It wasn't cheap to