One day a bunch of us were sitting around outside the store waiting for the mail to run--gabbing and "spittin and whittlin," when a man drove up with a fairly good-looking used, wooden icebox in his pick-up. Clark didn't move from his sitting position, but asked the stranger, in a loud voice, "How much for the icebox?" The man said, "I'll take ten dollars for it." Now Clarence didn't need the icebox--he didn't even want it. He had one just like it, only better. So, his idea was to play around with the stranger awhile, exchange a few words, sort of horse-trade with him a bit, and then let him go on his way with his icebox. He reasoned that if he offered anywhere near $10, the stranger might accept his offer and he would be stuck with a box he didn't want and wished he didn't have. But by any standard, no horse- trader is going to sell anything for half what he's asking for it- -leastwise, not without coming down slowly, a step at a time. So, Clark thought five dollars would be a safe offer. So, when the man said, "I'll take ten dollars for it," Clark didn't hesitate to say, "I'll give you five." Nor did the stranger hesitate to say, "I'll take it." Clark said, "You'll have to deliver it." "Sure will. Where to?" "About a mile. Follow me." Clark drove his car and the man followed in his pick-up. As the man backed up to the back porch, Mrs. Clark came out of the kitchen and asked, "What have we got here? Her husband said, "We've got an icebox." "We don't need it. We've got one icebox." "You're wrong, woman, we've got two iceboxes." I don't know what they ever did with the old box, but I'm sure he didn't let it bother him in the least. At the Royston gin, the house in which we stored our cotton was about 30 or 40 steps away from the office building. The door leading into the cotton house was on the far side, away from the office. The door opened to the outside, and the V-space behind the open door made a nice little outhouse for men, who, for any reason at all, preferred not to walk the long distance to the two- holer when all they wanted to do was stand and drain a load of water against the cotton house wall. One day I was up in a farmer's trailer unloading his cotton into the cotton house when Clarence Clark came out from the office and stood half hidden, his front half that is, behind the aforementioned door, and began his little chore of getting rid of excess waste water. Whereupon, I seized the opportunity to play a practical joke on this practical jokester, Mr. Clark. I went to the back of the trailer, leaned out over the tailgate so I could see around the corner of the cotton house and, looking toward the office, I said in a loud voice, "No, ma'am, he's not here now, but he was here a few minutes ago."