Doc got red in the face and asked, real sarcastic, “And what’s the other piece of training?”

Uncle Benny said, “Doc, that Ford has carried me home drunk so many times, I’ve got it trained to where it’ll take care of me and carry me home safe when I ain’t fitten.”

Doc spit halfway across the road and he said, “You lying old jay-bird.”

Uncle Benny said, “Doc, I’ve got a pint of moonshine, and if you’ll come go camping with me to Salt Springs this evening, I’ll prove it.”

The Old Hen spoke up and she said, “Benny, Heaven forgive you for I won’t, if you go on the prowl again before you’ve cleared the weeds out of my old pindar field. I’m a month late now, getting it planted.”

Doc loves Salt Springs crab and mullet as good as Uncle Benny does, and I could see he was tempted.

But he said, “Benny, you go along home and do what your wife wants, and when you’re done—when she says you’re done—then we’ll go to Salt Springs.”

So Uncle Benny and the Old Hen drove off. Doc watched after them.

He said, “Anyways, cutting the fool at a burying had ought to last Benny quite a while.”

I said, “You don’t know him. Cutting the fool don’t last him no time at all.”

I was right. I ain’t so special wise a woman, but if I once know a man, I can come right close to telling you what he’ll do. Uncle Benny hadn’t been gone hardly no time, when somebody come by the garage hollering that he’d done set the Old Hen’s pindar field on fire.

I said to Doc, “What did I tell you? The last thing in the world was safe for that woman to do, was to turn him loose on them weeds. He figured firing was the quickest way to get shut of them.”

Doc said, “Let’s go see.”

We got in his car and drove out to Uncle Benny’s place. Here was smoke rolling up back of the house, and the big live oak in the yard was black with soldier blackbirds the grass fire had drove out of the pindar field. The field hadn’t had peanuts in it since fall, but bless Katy, it was full of something else. Uncle Benny’s wife had it plumb full of setting guinea-hens. She hadn’t told him, because he didn’t like guineas.

Far off to the west corner of the field was the Old Hen, trying to run the guineas into a coop. They were flying every which-a-way and hollering Pod-rac! Pod-rac! the way guineas holler. All the young uns in the neighborhood were in the middle of the field, beating out the grass fire with palmettos. And setting up on top of the east gate, just as unconcerned, was Uncle Benny, with them two little horns of white hair curling in the heat. Now what do you reckon he was doing? He had all seven of them bird-dogs running back and forth retrieving guinea eggs. He’d say now and again, “Dead—fetch!” and they’d wag their tails and go hunt up another nest and here they’d come, with guinea eggs carried gentle in their mouths. He was putting the eggs in a basket.