Kenny turned his searchlight on it and had a moment of doubt.

The man was facially endowed for anything but virtue.
He was likely getting in--not up.
"Hum!" said Kenny suspiciously.

"Are you coming in, my good friend, or are you going out ?" "I'm comin' into my own corncrib, damn you!" shouted the farmer with unexpected malevolence, "and you're going out!" Kenny, resistant, knew instantly that he was not.

He sat up.
"The acoustics, Silas," he said with cold disapproval, "are excellent.
Therefore--" It was impossible to finish.

The farmer, finding the name offensively rustic, roared into the corncrib that Kenny was a hobo without future hope of heaven.