"I run a garage over at Patmos once, an' the boobs I seen creepin' in on their last spoonful uh gas--walkin' sometimes for miles to carry gas back to where they was stalled--learnt Casey Ryan to fill 'er up every chancet he gits." But although the subject of age had been dropped half a mile back in the sand, certain phrases flung at him had been barbed and had bitten deep into Casey Ryan's self-esteem.

They stung and rankled there.

He had squirmed at the picture his new friend had so ruthlessly drawn with crude words, but bold, of doddering old age.

Casey resented the implication that he might one day fill that picture.
He began vaguely to resent the Little Woman's air of needing to protect him from himself.

Casey Ryan, he told himself boastfully, had never needed protection from anybody.