It was not such a bad truck, give it new tires.

Casey had already figured the price at which he could probably sell it, on an easy payment plan, to the man who hauled water for Patmos.

It was more than the amount of his loan, naturally.

By noon he was rather hoping the "Smith Bros." would fail to take up that note.
Casey, you see, was not counting the goats at all.

He had a vague idea that, while they were nominally a part of the security, they were actually of no importance whatever.