Morning, Walter said. Frank barely glanced at him. Morning. Sites closed to visitors. Insurance liability. I’m not a visitor. I’m your neighbor. own the land on the other side of that treeine. Walter nodded toward the stuck excavator. Saw your problem. Thought I might be able to help now.
Frank looked at him, looked at the worn overalls, the mudcaked boots, the 73-year-old face weathered by half a century of Iowa weather. Help! How? I can pull that out. The words hung in the air. The engineers exchanged glances. Someone coughed. Frank Donnelly started to laugh. Let me tell you about that laugh because it’s important to the story.
Frank Donnelly was 45 years old and had built Donnelly construction from nothing. He’d started with one back hoe in a pickup truck, worked 18-hour days for 20 years, and turned himself into the biggest contractor in eastern Iowa. He employed 150 men. He had equipment worth millions. He’d built bridges and highways and shopping centers and schools.
Frank Donnelly was not a humble man. Success had taught him that he was smarter than most people, harder working than most people, better than most people. When he looked at Walter Brennan at the old farmer in his worn clothes with his ancient tractor, he saw everything he’d spent his life proving he wasn’t. So he laughed. “You can pull that out,” Frank repeated, still laughing.
“With what, Grandpa? your John Deere. That excavator weighs 60 tons. Your tractor weighs what? Five. Not with the John Deere, Walter said calmly. With my steamer. Your what? My steam traction engine. Case 1912 model. 110 horsepower. She’s been in my family for 80 years. The laughter spread now. The engineers were chuckling.
