I'll make 'em bawl like a calf, and I'll pound 'em on the back and make 'em fan it faster." So talking to himself and his team he rode into town and up to one of those ubiquitous Ford agencies that write their curly-tailed blue lettering across the continent from the high nose of Maine to the shoulder of Cape Flattery.
"Gimme one of them dog-goned blankety bing-bing Ford auty-_mo_-biles," he commanded the garage owner who came to meet Casey amiably in his shirt sleeves.

"Here's four horses I'll trade yuh, with what's left of the harness.

And up at the third turn you'll find a good wheel off'n the stage." He slid down from the sweaty back of his nigh leader and stood slightly bow-legged and very determined before the garage owner, Bill Masters.
"Wel-l--there ain't much sale for horses, Casey.

I ain't got any place to keep 'em, nor any feed.

I'll sell yuh a Ford on time, and--" Casey glanced over his shoulder to make sure the horses were standing quiet, dropped the reins and advanced upon Bill.
"You _trade_," he stated flatly.
Bill backed a little.