"Bud, you're fourteen kinds of a damn fool and I can prove it," Jerry announced without prelude of any kind save, perhaps, the viciousness with which he thrust a pitchfork into a cock of hay.

The two were turning over hay-cocks that had been drenched with another unwelcome storm, and they had not been talking much.

"Forking" soggy hay when the sun is blistering hot and great, long-billed mosquitoes are boring indefatigably into the back of one's neck is not a pastime conducive to polite and animated conversation.
"Fly at it," Bud invited, resting his fork while he scratched a smarting shoulder.

"But you can skip some of the evidence.

I know seven of the kinds, and I plead guilty.