Johnson turned back to watch a large black spider in another case sucking up the half-digested slurry of its latest victim.
Trying to be polite, Johnson asked, "Bet you don't get many visitors here卋eing so far from the highway."
"Don't need 'em," said the old man. "This is just a sideline." Pausing for effect he added, "I breed 'em."
Johnson looked puzzled.
"For the college," explained the old man. "They use 'em for research."
"Does it pay well?"
"Good 'nuf匒h, they don't know squat 'bout spiders!," said the old man, spitting on the floor. Johnson looked down and saw that a streak of the sticky black tobacco had splashed on his shoes.
"I been doing research of my own," said the old man proudly. "Spiders are jes' like any other critter. Cows, horses, dogs - they're all the same. Breed the best with the best and you git the best匫r the?" the old man's voice trailed off as he started to laugh.
There was something about his tone that made Johnson uneasy.
"You wanna see my prize winner?"
Johnson looked around.
"Oh, she ain't here. I keep her in the barn. She kinda makes these critters nervous. I can't say, I blames them. Wanna see her?"
The way the old man said it, the question sounded more like a challenge.
Johnson hesitated. He wanted to say no, but he could not let the old man see he was afraid.
"Sure," answered Johnson. What could it be? he asked himself. A tarantula?
With the old man in front, they went down a lesser-used path to a small barn behind a stand of trees that made it invisible from the farmhouse. A shiny new lock on a rusted hasp yielded to the old man's key.
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