The fuel-injection pump remained a worry. Mr. Pittman suspected corrosion inside, but he refused to guess about a precise repair because diesel injection equipment required specialized testing. James arranged for a qualified shop to examine it. The first estimate was enough to make Grandma sit down when she heard it. Then the shop owner, who had known Grandpa Earl, offered a reduced labor charge if the unit could be rebuilt rather than replaced. It was not a favor we could demand; it was a kindness offered after the technician understood the project and reviewed the evidence.
I wanted to go with the pump when it left the farm. Mr. Pittman explained that there were jobs a shop had to perform with equipment we didn't have. I watched the man carry it away in a padded box and felt as if the heart of the whole tractor had disappeared down the road. Without the pump, the rest of our work seemed unfinished in a way I couldn't bear.
The following Thursday, Floyd Meeker's pickup rolled slowly up our driveway. He had come, he said, because he'd heard we were still throwing time at the tractor and he wanted to offer us an easy exit. He stood beside the John Deere with his hands in the pockets of his expensive coat, looking at the partially dismantled engine with an expression that reminded me of the auction barn.
"I'll give you five hundred for the lot," he told Grandma. "That's fifty dollars profit and you can stop worrying about it."
For a moment I thought she might accept. Five hundred dollars would have paid several immediate bills, and the tractor still couldn't move under its own power. The schoolyard joke echoed in my head. Scrap Price. I looked at Grandma, trying not to make my face a plea.
She asked Floyd why he wanted the machine. He shrugged. "It's worth more in pieces than it is standing here. I can use a few parts and sell the rest. No offense, but it's a practical business decision."
Grandma considered the offer carefully. Then she said we weren't selling today. Mr. Pittman's assessment still put the restoration within our approved plan, and we hadn't reached the point at which stopping was the responsible choice. She thanked Floyd for coming and told him she'd keep his offer in mind if the facts changed.
Floyd looked past her toward me. "Guess you still think that thing is going to plow a field, boy."
"I hope it will," I answered. "We're finding out."
He tilted his head, apparently searching for the boast he could turn into a joke. When I didn't give him one, he went back to his pickup. He left without slamming the door or making another remark. After the engine sound had faded, Grandma asked whether I was angry with him.