CHAPTER XV. ONE SATURDAY AFTERNOON

Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer

HIRAM THE YOUNG FARMER

By Burbank L. Todd

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE CALL OF SPRING

CHAPTER II. AT MRS. ATTERSON'S

CHAPTER III. A DREARY DAY

CHAPTER IV. THE LOST CARD

CHAPTER V. THE COMMOTION AT MOTHER ATTERSON'S

CHAPTER VI. THIS DIDN'T GET BY HIRAM

CHAPTER VII. HOW HIRAM LEFT TOWN

CHAPTER VIII. THE LURE OF GREEN FIELDS

CHAPTER IX. THE BARGAIN IS MADE

CHAPTER X. THE SOUND OF BEATING HOOFS

CHAPTER XI. A GIRL RIDES INTO THE TALE

CHAPTER XII. SOMETHING ABOUT A PASTURE FENCE

CHAPTER XIII. THE UPROOTING

CHAPTER XIV. GETTING IN THE EARLY CROPS

CHAPTER XV. TROUBLE BREWS

CHAPTER XV. ONE SATURDAY AFTERNOON

CHAPTER XVII. MR. PEPPER APPEARS

CHAPTER XVIII. A HEAVY CLOUD

CHAPTER XIX. THE REASON WHY

CHAPTER XX. AN ENEMY IN THE DARK

CHAPTER XXI. THE WELCOME TEMPEST

CHAPTER XXII. FIRST FRUITS

CHAPTER XXIII. TOMATOES AND TROUBLE

CHAPTER XXIV. “CORN THAT'S CORN”

CHAPTER XXV. THE BARBECUE

CHAPTER XXVI. SISTER'S TURKEYS

CHAPTER XXVII. RUN TO EARTH

CHAPTER XXVIII. HARVEST

CHAPTER XXIX. LETTIE BRONSON'S CORN HUSKING

CHAPTER XXX. ONE SNOWY MIDNIGHT

CHAPTER XXXI. “MR. DAMOCLES'S SWORD”

CHAPTER XXXII. THE CLOUD IS LIFTED

CHAPTER XXXIII. “CELERY MAD”

CHAPTER XXXIV. CLEANING UP A PROFIT

CHAPTER XXXV. LOOKING AHEAD

CHAPTER I. THE CALL OF SPRING

“Well, after all, the country isn't such a bad place as some city folk

think.”

The young fellow who said this stood upon the highest point of the Ridge

Road, where the land sloped abruptly to the valley in which lay the

small municipality of Crawberry on the one hand, while on the other open

fields and patches of woodland, in a huge green-and-brown checkerboard

pattern, fell more easily to the bank of the distant river.

Dotted here and there about the farming country lying before the youth

as he looked westward were cottages, or the more important-looking

homesteads on the larger farms; and in the distance a white church spire

behind the trees marked the tiny settlement of Blaine's Smithy.

A Sabbath calm lay over the fields and woods. It was mid-afternoon of

an early February Sunday--the time of the mid-winter thaw, that false

prophet of the real springtime.

Although not a furrow had been turned as yet in the fields, and the snow

lay deep in some fence corners and beneath the hedges, there was, after

all, a smell of fresh earth--a clean, live smell--that Hiram Strong had

missed all week down in Crawberry.

“I'm glad I came up here,” he muttered, drawing in great breaths of

the clean air. “Just to look at the open fields, without any brick and

mortar around, makes a fellow feel fine!”

He stretched his arms above his head and, standing alone there on the

upland, felt bigger and better than he had in weeks.

For Hiram Strong was a country boy, born and bred, and the town stifled

him. Besides, he had begun to see that his two years in Crawberry had

been wasted.

“As a hustler after fortune in the city I am not a howling success,”

mused Hiram. “Somehow, I'm cramped down yonder,” and he glanced back

at the squalid brick houses below him, the smoky roofs, and the ugly

factory chimneys.

“And I declare,” he pursued, reflectively, “I don't believe I can stand

Old Dan Dwight much longer. Dan, Junior, is bad enough--when he is

around the store; but the boss would drive a fellow to death.”

He shook his head, now turning from the pleasanter prospect of the

farming land and staring down into the town.

“Maybe I'm not a success because I don't stick to one thing. I've had

six jobs in less'n two years. That's a bad record for a boy, I believe.

But there hasn't any of them suited me, nor have I suited them.

“And Dwight's Emporium beats 'em all!” finished Hiram, shaking his head.

He turned his back upon the town once more, as though to wipe his

failure out of his memory. Before him sloped a field of wheat and

clover.

It had kept as green under the snow as though winter was an unknown

season. Every cloverleaf sparkled and the leaves of wheat bristled like

tiny spears.

Spring was on the way. He could hear the call of it!

Two years before Hiram had left the farm. He had no immediate relatives

after his father died. The latter had been a tenant-farmer only, and

when his tools and stock and the few household chattels had been sold

to pay the debts that had accumulated during his last illness, there was

very little money left for Hiram.

There was nobody to say him nay when he packed his bag and started for

Crawberry, which was the metropolis of his part of the country. He had

set out boldly, believing that he could get ahead faster, and become

master of his own fortune more quickly in town than in the locality

where he was born.

He was a rugged, well-set-up youth of seventeen, not over-tall, but

sturdy and able to do a man's work. Indeed, he had long done a man's

work before he left the farm.

Hiram's hands were calloused, he shuffled a bit when walked, and his

shoulders were just a little bowed from holding the plow handles since

he had been big enough to bridle his father's old mare.

Yes, the work on the farm had been hard--especially for a growing boy.

Many farm boys work under better conditions than Hiram had.

Nevertheless, after a two years' trial of what the city has in store for

most country boys who cut loose from their old environment, Hiram Strong

felt to-day as though he must get back to the land.

“There's nothing for me in town. Clerking in Dwight's Emporium will

never get me anywhere,” he thought, turning finally away from the open

country and starting down the steep hill.

“Why, there are college boys working on our street cars here--waiting

for some better job to turn up. What chance does a fellow stand who's

only got a country school education?

“And there isn't any clean fun for a fellow in Crawberry--fun that

doesn't cost money. And goodness knows I can't make more than enough to

pay Mrs. Atterson, and for my laundry, and buy a new suit of overalls

and a pair of shoes occasionally.

“No, sir!” concluded Hiram. “There's nothing in it. Not for a fellow

like me, at any rate. I'd better be back on the farm--and I wish I was

there now.”

He had been to church that morning; but after the late dinner at his

boarding house had set out on this lonely walk. Now he had nothing to

look forward to as he returned but the stuffy parlor of Mrs. Atterson's

boarding house, the cold supper in the dining-room, which was attended

in a desultory fashion by such of the boarders as were at home, and then

a long, dull evening in his room, or bed after attending the evening

service at the church around the corner.

Hiram even shrank from meeting the same faces at the boarding house

table, hearing the same stale jokes or caustic remarks about Mrs.

Atterson's food from Fred Crackit and the young men boarders of his

class, or the grumbling of Mr. Peebles, the dyspeptic invalid, or the

inane monologue of Old Lem Camp.

And Mrs. Atterson herself--good soul though she was--had gotten on Hiram

Strong's nerves, too. With her heat-blistered face, near-sighted eyes

peering through beclouded spectacles, and her gown buttoned up hurriedly

and with a gap here and there where a button was missing, she was the

typically frowsy, hurried, nagged-to-death boarding house mistress.

And as for “Sister,” Mrs. Atterson's little slavey and

maid-of-all-work----

“Well, Sister's the limit!” smiled Hiram, as he turned into the street,

with its rows of ugly brick houses on either hand. “I believe Fred

Crackit has got it right. Mrs. Atterson keeps Sister instead of a

cat--so there'll be something to kick.”

The half-grown girl--narrow-chested, round shouldered, and sallow--had

been taken by Mrs. Atterson from some charity institution. “Sister,” as

the boarders all called her, for lack of any other cognomen, would have

her yellow hair in four attenuated pigtails hanging down her back, and

she would shuffle about the dining-room in a pair of Mrs. Atterson's old

shoes----

“By Jove! there she is now,” exclaimed the startled youth.

At the corner of the street several “slices” of the brick block had

been torn away and the lot cleared for the erection of some business

building. Running across this open space with wild shrieks and spilling

the milk from the big pitcher she carried--milk for the boarders' tea,

Hi knew--came Mrs. Atterson's maid.

Behind her, and driving her like a horse by the ever present “pigtails,”

bounded a boy of about her own age--a laughing, yelling imp of a boy

whom Hiram knew very well.

“That Dan Dwight is the meanest little scamp at this end of the town!”

he said to himself.

The noise the two made attracted only the idle curiosity of a few

people. It was a locality where, even on Sundays, there was more or less

noise.

Sister begged and screamed. She feared she would spill the milk and told

Dan, Junior, so. But he only drove her the harder, yelling to her to

“Get up!” and yanking as hard as he could on the braids.

“Here! that's enough of that!” called Hiram, stepping quickly toward the

two.

For Sister had stopped exhausted, and in tears.

“Be off with you!” commanded Hiram. “You've plagued the girl enough.”

“Mind your business, Hi-ram-Lo-ram!” returned Dan, Junior, grabbing at

Sister's hair again.

Hiram caught the younger boy by the shoulder and whirled him around.

“You run along to Mrs. Atterson, Sister,” he said, quietly. “No, you

don't!” he added, gripping Dan, Junior, more firmly. “You'll stop right

here.”

“Lemme be, Hi Strong!” bawled the other, when he found he could not

easily jerk away. “It'll be the worse for you if you don't.”

“Just you wait until the girl is home,” returned Hiram, laughing. It was

an easy matter for him to hold the writhing Dan, Junior.

“I'll fix you for this!” squalled the boy. “Wait till I tell my father.”

“You wouldn't dare tell your father the truth,” laughed Hi.

“I'll fix you,” repeated Dan, Junior, and suddenly aimed a vicious kick

at his captor.

Had the kick landed where Dan, Junior, intended--under Hi's kneecap--the

latter certainly would have been “fixed.” But the country youth was too

agile for him.

He jumped aside, dragged Dan, Junior, suddenly toward him, and then gave

him a backward thrust which sent the lighter boy spinning.

Now, it had rained the day before and in a hollow beside the path was

a puddle several inches deep. Dan, Junior, lost his balance, staggered

back, tripped over his own clumsy heels, and splashed full length into

it.

“Oh, oh!” he bawled, managing to get well soaked before he scrambled

out. “I'll tell my father on you, Hi Strong. You'll catch it for this!”

“You'd better run home before you catch cold,” said Hiram, who could not

help laughing at the young rascal's plight. “And let girls alone another

time.”

To himself he said: “Well, the goodness knows I couldn't be much more

in bad odor with Mr. Dwight than I am already. But this escapade of his

precious son ought to about 'fix' me, as Dan, Junior, says.

“Whether I want to, or not, I reckon I will be looking for another job

in a very few days.”

CHAPTER II. AT MRS. ATTERSON'S

When you came into “Mother” Atterson's front hall (the young men

boarders gave her that appellation in irony) the ghosts of many ancient

boiled dinners met you with--if you were sensitive and unused to the

odors of cheap boarding houses--a certain shock.

He was starting up the stairs, on which the ragged carpet threatened to

send less agile persons than Mrs. Atterson's boarders headlong to

the bottom at every downward trip, when the clang of the gong in the

dining-room announced the usual cold spread which the landlady thought

due to her household on the first day of the week.

Hiram hesitated, decided that he would skip the meal, and started up

again. But just then Fred Crackit lounged out of the parlor, with Mr.

Peebles following him. Dyspeptic as he was, Mr. Peebles never missed a

meal himself, and Crackit said:

“Come on, Hi-Low-Jack! Aren't you coming down to the usual feast of

reason and flow of soul?”

Crackit thought he was a natural humorist, and he had to keep up his

reputation at all times and seasons. He was rather a dissipated-looking

man of thirty years or so, given to gay waistcoats and wonderfully knit

ties. A brilliant as large as a hazel-nut--and which, in some lights,

really sparkled like a diamond--adorned the tie he wore this evening.

“I don't believe I want any supper,” responded Hiram, pleasantly.

“What's the matter? Got some inside information as to what Mother

Atterson has laid out for us? You're pretty thick with the old girl,

Hi.”

“That's not a nice way to speak of her, Mr. Crackit,” said Hi, in a low

voice.

The other boarders--those who were in the house-straggled into the

basement dining-room one after the other, and took their places at the

long table, each in his customary manner.

That dining-room at Mother Atterson's never could have been a cheerful

place. It was long, and low-ceiled, and the paper on the walls was

a dingy red, so old that the figure on it had retired into the

background--been absorbed by it, so to speak.

The two long, dusty, windows looked upon an area, and were grilled half

way up by wrought-iron screens which, too, helped to shut out the light

of day.

The long table was covered by a red figured table cloth. The “castors”

at both ends and in the middle were the ugliest--Hiram was sure--to be

found in all the city of Crawberry. The crockery was of the coarsest

kind. The knives and forks were antediluvian. The napkins were as coarse

as huck towels.

But Mrs. Atterson's food--considering the cost of provisions and the

charge she made for her table--was very good. Only it had become a habit

for certain of the boarders, led by the jester, Crackit, to criticise

the viands.

Sometimes they succeeded in making Mrs. Atterson angry; and sometimes,

Hiram knew, she wept, alone in the dining-room, after the harumscarum,

thoughtless crowd had gone.

Old Lem Camp--nobody save Hiram thought to put “Mr.” before the old

gentleman's name--sidled in and sat down beside the country boy, as

usual. He was a queer, colorless sort of person--a man who never looked

into the face of another if he could help it. He would look all around

Hiram when he spoke to him--at his shoulder, his shirtfront, his hands,

even at his feet if they were visible, but never at his face.

And at the table he kept up a continual monologue. It was difficult

sometimes for Hiram to know when he was being addressed, and when poor

Mr. Camp was merely talking to himself.

“Let's see--where has Sister put my napkin--Oh! here it is--You've been

for a walk, have you, young man?--No, that's not my napkin; I didn't

spill any gravy at dinner--Nice day out, but raw--Goodness me! can't I

have a knife and fork?--Where's my knife and fork?--Sister certainly has

forgotten my knife and fork.--Oh! Here they are--Yes, a very nice day

indeed for this time of year.”

And so on. It was quite immaterial to Mr. Camp whether he got an answer

to his remarks to Hiram, or not. He went on muttering to himself, all

through the meal, sometimes commenting upon what the others said at the

table--and that quite shrewdly, Hiram noticed; but the other boarders

considered him a little cracked.

Sister smiled sheepishly at Hiram as she passed the tea. She drowned

his tea with milk and put in no less than four spoonfuls of sugar. But

although the fluid was utterly spoiled for Hiram's taste he drank it

with fortitude, knowing that the girl's generosity was the child of her

gratitude; for both sugar and milk were articles very scantily supplied

at Mother Atterson's table.

The mistress herself did not appear. Now that he was down here in the

dining-room, Hiram lingered. He hated the thought of going up to his

lonely and narrow quarters at the top of the house.

The other boarders trailed out of the room and up stairs, one after

another, Old Lem Camp being the last to go. Sister brought in a dish of

hot toast between two plates and set it at the upper end of the table.

Then Mrs. Atterson appeared.

Hiram knew at once that something had gone wrong with the boarding

house mistress. She had been crying, and when a woman of the age of Mrs.

Atterson indulges in tears, her personal appearance is never improved.

“Oh, that you, Hi?” she drawled, with a snuffle. “Did you get enough to

eat?”

“Yes, Mrs. Atterson,” returned the youth, starting to get up. “I have

had plenty.”

“I'm glad you did,” said the lady. “And you're easy 'side of most of

'em, Hiram. You're a real good boy.”

“I reckon I get all I pay for, Mrs. Atterson,” said her youngest

boarder.

“Well, there ain't many of 'em would say that. And they was awful

provokin' this noon. That roast of veal was just as good meat as I could

find in market; and I don't know what any sensible party would want

better than that prune pie.

“Well! I hope I won't have to keep a boarding house all my life. It's a

thankless task. An' it ties a body down so.

“Here's my uncle--my poor mother's only brother and about the only

relative I've got in the world--here's Uncle Jeptha down with the grip,

or suthin', and goodness knows if he'll ever get over it. And I can't

leave to go and see him die peaceable.”

“Does he live far from here?” asked Hiram, politely, although he had no

particular reason for being interested in Uncle Jeptha.

“He lives on a farm out Scoville way. He's lived there most all his

life. He used to make a right good living off'n that farm, too; but it's

run down some now.

“The last time I was out there, two years ago, he was just keepin' along

and that's all. And now I expect he's dying, without a chick or child

of his own by him,” and she burst out crying again, the tears sprinkling

the square of toast into which she continued to bite.

Of course, it was ridiculous. A middle-aged woman weeping and eating

toast and drinking strong boiled tea is not a romantic picture. But as

Hiram climbed to his room he wished with all his heart that he could

help Mrs. Atterson.

He wasn't the only person in the world who seemed to have got into

a wrong environment--lots of people didn't fit right into their

circumstances in life.

“We're square pegs in round holes--that's what we are,” mused Hiram.

“That's what I am. I wish I was out of it. I wish I was back on the

farm.”

CHAPTER III. A DREARY DAY

Daniel Dwight's Emporium, the general store was called, and it was in a

very populous part of the town of Crawberry. Old Daniel was a driver, he

seldom had clerks enough to handle his trade properly, and nobody could

suit him. As general helper and junior clerk, Hiram Strong had remained

with the concern longer than any other boy Daniel had hired in years.

When the early Monday morning rush was over, and there was moment's

breathing space, Hiram went to the door to re-arrange the trays of

vegetables which were his particular care. Hiram had a knack of making

a bank of the most plebeian vegetable and salads look like the

display-window of a florist.

Now the youth looked out upon a typical city street, the dwellings

on either side being four and five story tenement houses, occupied by

artisans and mechanics.

A few quarreling children paddled sticks, or sailed chip boats, in the

gutters.

“Come on, now! Get a move on you, Hi!” sounded the raucous voice of

Daniel Dwight the elder, behind him in the store.

Hiram went at his task with neither interest nor energy.

All about him the houses and the street were grimy and depressing. It

had been a gray and murky morning; but overhead a patch of sky was as

blue as June. He suddenly saw a flock of pigeons wheeling above the

tunnel of the street, and the boy's heart leaped at the sight.

He longed for freedom. He wished he could fly, up, up, up above the

housetops and the streets, like those feathered fowl.

He knew he was stagnating here in this dingy store; the deadly sameness

of his life chafed him sorely.

“I'd take another job if I could find one,” he muttered, stirring up the

bunches of yellowing radish leaves and trying to make them look fresh.

“And Old Daniel is likely to give me a chance to hunt a job pretty

sudden--the way he talks. But if Dan, Junior, told him what happened

yesterday, I wonder the old gentleman hasn't been after me with a sharp

stick.”

From somewhere--out of the far-distant open country where it had been

breathing all night the quivering pines, and brown swamps, and the

white and gray checkered fields that would soon be upturned by the

plowshares--a vagrant wind wandered into the city street.

The lingering, but faint perfume wafted here from God's open world to

die in this man-made town inspired in the youth thoughts and desires

that had been struggling within him for expression for days past.

“I know what I want,” said Hiram Strong, aloud. “I want to get back to

the land!”

The progress of the day was not inducive to a hopeful outlook for

Hiram. When closing time came he was heartily sick of the business of

storekeeping, if he never had been before.

And when he dragged himself home to the boarding house, he found the

atmosphere there as dreary as the street itself. The boarders were

grumpy and Mrs. Atterson was in a tearful state again.

Hiram could not stay in his room. It was a narrow, cold place at the end

of the back hall at the top of the house. There was a little, painted

bureau in it, one leg of which had been replaced by a brick, and the

little glass was so blue and blurred that he never could see in it

whether his tie was straight or not.

There was a chair, a shelf for books, and a narrow folding bed. When the

bed was dropped down for his occupancy at night, he could not get the

door open. Had there ever been a fire at Atterson's at night, Hiram's

best chance for escape would have been by the window.

So this evening, to kill the miserable stretch of time until sleep

should come to him, the boy went out and walked the streets.

Two things had saved Hiram Strong from getting into bad company on these

evening rambles. One was the small amount of money he earned, and the

other was the naturally clean nature of the boy. The cheap amusements

which lured on either hand did not attract him.

But the dangers are there in every city, and they lurk for every boy in

a like position.

The main thoroughfare in this part of the town where Hiram boarded

was brightly lighted, gaudy electric signs attracting notice to cheap

picture shows, catch-penny arcades, cheap jewelry stores, and the ever

present saloons and pool rooms.

It looked bright, and warm, and lively in many of these places; but the

country-bred boy was cautious.

Now and then a raucous-voiced automobile shot along the street; the

electric cars made their usual clangor, and there was still some

ordinary traffic of the day dribbling away into the side streets, for it

was early in the evening.

Hiram was about to turn into one of these side streets on his way back

to Mrs. Atterson's. Turning the corner was a handsome span of horses

attached to a comfortable but mud-bespattered carriage. It was plainly

from the country.

The light at the corner of the street shone brightly into the carriage.

Hiram saw a well-built man in a gray greatcoat and slouch hat, holding

the reins over the backs of the spirited horses.

Beside him sat a girl. She could have been no more than twelve or

fourteen--not so old as Sister, by a year or two. But how different she

was from the starved-looking, boarding house slavey!

She was framed in furs--rich, gray and black furs that muffled her

from top to toe, only leaving her brilliant, dark little face with its

perfect features shining like a jewel in its setting.

She was talking laughingly to the big man beside her, and he was looking

down at her. Perhaps this was why he did not see what lay just ahead--or

perhaps the glare of the street light blinded him, as it must have the

horses, as the equipage turned into the darker side street.

But Hiram saw their peril. He sprang into the street with a cry of

warning. And he was lucky enough to seize the nigh horse by the bridle

and pull both the high-steppers around.

There was an excavation--an opening for a water-main--in this street.

The workmen had either neglected to leave a red lantern, or malicious

boys had stolen it.

Another moment and the horses would have been in this excavation and

even now the carriage swayed. One forward wheel went over the edge of

the hole, and for the minute it was doubtful whether Hiram had saved the

occupants of the carriage by his quick action, or had accelerated the

catastrophe.

CHAPTER IV. THE LOST CARD

Had Hiram Strong not been a muscular youth for his age, and sturdy

withal, the excited horses would have broken away from him and the

carriage would certainly have gone into the ditch.

But he had a grip on the bridle reins now that could not be broken,

although the horses plunged and struck fire from the stones of the

street with their shoes. He dragged them forward, the carriage pitched

and rolled for a moment, and then stood upright again, squarely on its

four wheels.

“All right, lad! I've got 'em!” exclaimed the gentleman in the carriage.

He had a hearty, husky sort of voice--a voice that came from deep down

in his chest and was more than a little hoarse. But there was no quiver

of excitement in it. Indeed, he who had been in peril was much less

disturbed by the incident than was Hiram himself.

Nor had the girl screamed, or otherwise voiced her terror. Now Hiram

heard her say, as he stepped back from the plunging horses:

“That is a good boy, Daddy. Speak to him again.”

The man in gray laughed. He was now holding in the frightened team with

one firm hand while he fumbled in the pocket of his big coat with the

other.

“He certainly has got some muscle, that lad,” announced the gentleman.

“Here, son, where can I find you when I'm in town again?”

“I work at Dwight's Emporium,” replied Hiram, rather diffidently.

“All right. Thanks. Here's my card. You're the kind of a boy I like.

I'll surely look you up.”

He held out the bit of pasteboard to Hiram; but as the youth stepped

nearer to reach it, the impatient horses sprang forward and the carriage

rolled swiftly by him.

The card flipped from the man's fingers. Hiram grabbed for it, but

missed the card. It fluttered into the excavation in the street and the

shadow hid it completely from the boy's gaze.

Had there been a lantern nearby, as there should have been, Hiram would

have taken it to search for the lost card. For he felt suddenly as

though Opportunity had brushed past him.

The man in the carriage evidently lived out of town. He might be a

prosperous farmer. And, being a farmer, he might be able to give Hiram

just the sort of job he was looking for.

The card, of course, would have put Hiram in touch with the man. And he

seemed like a hearty, good-natured individual.

“And the girl--his daughter--was as pretty as a picture,” thought Hiram,

as he turned wearily toward the boarding house. “Well! I don't know that

I'll ever see either of them again; but if I could learn that man's name

and address I'd certainly look him up.”

So much did this thought disturb him that he was up an hour earlier than

usual the next morning and hurried to work by the way of the excavation

in the street where the incident had occurred.

But he could not find the card, although he got down into the ditch to

search for it. The loose sand, perhaps, rattling down from the sides of

the excavation during the night, had buried the bit of pasteboard, and

Hiram went on to Dwight's Emporium more disheartened than ever.

The work there went worse that morning. Old Daniel Dwight drove the

young fellow from one task to another. The other clerks got a minute's

time to themselves now and then; but the proprietor of the store seemed

to have his keen eyes on Hiram continually.

There was always a slow-up in the work about ten o'clock, and Hiram had

a request to make. He asked Old Daniel for an hour off.

“An hour off--with all this work to do? What do you mean, boy?” roared

the proprietor. “What do you want an hour for?”

“I've got an errand,” replied Hiram, quietly.

“Well, what is it?” snarled the old man, curiously.

“Why--it's a private matter. I can't tell you,” returned the youth,

coolly.

“No good, I'll be bound--no good. I don't see why I should let you off

an hour----”

“I work many an hour overtime for you, Mr. Dwight,” put in Hiram.

“Yes, yes; that's all right. That's the agreement. You knew you'd have

to when you came to work at the Emporium. Stick to your contract, boy.”

“Then why don't you stick to yours?” demanded the youth, boldly.

“Eh! Eh! What do you mean by that?” cried Mr. Dwight, glaring at Hiram

through his spectacles.

“I mean that when I came to work for you seven months ago, you promised

that, if I suited after six months, you would raise my wages. And you

haven't done so,” said the young fellow, firmly.

For a moment the proprietor of the Emporium was dumb. It was true. He

had promised just that. He had got the boy cheaper by so doing. But

never before had he hired a boy who stayed as long as six months, so he

had never had to raise his wages.

“Well, well!”

He stammered for a moment; then a shrewd thought came to his mind.

He actually smiled. When Mr. Dwight smiled it was worse than when he

didn't.

“I told you that if you suited me I'd raise your pay, did I?” he

snarled. “Well, you don't suit me. You never have suited me. Therefore,

you get no raise, young man.”

Hiram was not astonished; he was only indignant. Another boy might have

expressed his anger by flaring up and tendering his resignation on the

spot.

But Hiram had that fear of debt in his breast which is almost always a

characteristic of the frugal, country-bred person. He had saved little.

He had no prospect of another job. And every Saturday night he was

expected to pay Mrs. Atterson three dollars and a half.

“At any rate, Mr. Dwight,” he said, quietly, after a minute's silence,

“I want an hour to myself this morning.”

“And I'll dock ye ten cents for it,” declared the old man.

“You can do as you like about that,” returned Hiram, and he walked into

the back room, took off his apron, and got into his coat.

He had it in mind to go to the big market, where the farmers drove in

from out of town, and see if he could meet one of his old neighbors,

or anybody else who could tell him of prospect of work for the coming

season. It was early yet for farmers to be looking for extra hands; but

Hiram hoped that he might see something in prospect for the future. He

had made up his mind that, if possible, he would not take another job in

town.

“And I can see pretty plainly that I've got about through at the

Emporium,” he thought, as he approached the open space devoted by the

City of Crawberry to a market for the truckmen and farmers who drove in

with their wares from the surrounding country.

At this time of day the bustle of market was over. The farmers would

have had their breakfasts in the little restaurants which encircled the

market-place, or would be preparing to drive home again. The hucksters

and push-cart merchants were picking up “seconds” and lot-ends of

vegetables for their trade. The cobbles of the market-place was a litter

of cabbage leaves, spilled sprouts, spoiled potatoes, and other refuse.

Hiram walked about, looking for somebody whom he knew; but most of the

faces around the market were strange to him. Several farmers he spoke to

about work; but they were not hiring hands, so, when his hour was up, he

went back to the Emporium, more despondent than before.

CHAPTER V. THE COMMOTION AT MOTHER ATTERSON'S

By chance that evening Hiram got home to his boarding house in good

season. The early boarders--“early birds” Crackit always termed

them--had not yet sat down to the long table in the dingy dining-room.

Indeed, the supper gong had not been pounded by Sister, and some of the

young men were grouped impatiently in the half-lighted parlor.

Through the swinging door into the steaming kitchen Hiram saw a huge

black woman waddling about the range, and heard her husky voice berating

Sister for not moving faster. Chloe only appeared when a catastrophe

happened at the boarding-house--and a catastrophe meant the removal of

Mrs. Atterson from her usual orbit.

“She's gone to the funeral. That Uncle Jeptha of hern is dead,”

whispered Sister in Hiram's ear when she put his soup in front of him.

“Ah-ha!” observed Mr. Crackit, eyeing Hiram with his head on one side,

“secrets, eh? Inside information of what's in the pudding sauce?”

Nothing went right at the boarding-house during the next two days. And

for Hiram Strong nothing seemed to go right anywhere!

He demanded--and got the permission, with another ten-cent tax--another

hour off to visit the market. But he found nobody who would hire a boy

at once. Some of the farmers doubted if he knew as much about farm-work

as he claimed to know. He was, after all, a boy, and some of them would

not believe that he had even worked in the country.

Affairs at the Emporium were getting strained, too. Daniel Dwight was as

shrewd a man as the next one. He saw plainly that his junior clerk was

getting ready--like the many who had gone before him--for a flitting.

He knew the signs of discontent, although Hiram prided himself on doing

his work just as well as ever.

Then, there was a squabble with Dan, Junior. The imp was always

underfoot on Saturdays. He was supposed to help--to run errands, and

take out in a basket certain orders to nearby customers who might be in

a hurry.

But usually when you wanted the boy he was in the alley pitching buttons

with loafing urchins of his own kind--“alley rats” his father angrily

called them--or leading a predatory gang of the same unsavory companions

in raids on other stores in the neighborhood.

And Dan, Junior “had it in” for Hiram. He had not forgiven the bigger

boy for pitching him into the puddle.

“An' them was my best clo'es, and now maw says I've got to wear 'em just

the same on Sunday, and they're shrunk and stained,” snarled the younger

Dan, hovering about Hiram as the latter re-dressed the fruit stand

during a moment's let-up in the Saturday morning rush. “Gimme an

orange.”

“What! At five cents apiece?” exclaimed Hiram. “Guess not. Go look in

the basket under the bench; maybe there's a specked one there.”

“Nope. Dad took 'em all home last night and maw cut out the specks and

sliced 'em for supper. Gimme a good orange.”

“Ask your father,” said Hiram.

“Naw, I won't!” declared young Dwight, knowing very well what his

father's answer would be.

He suddenly made a grab for the golden globe on the apex of Hiram's

handsomest pyramid.

“Let that alone, Dan!” cried Hiram, and seized the youngster by the

wrist.

Dan, Junior, was a wiry little scamp, and he twisted and turned, and

kicked and squalled, and Hiram was just wrenching the orange from his

hand when Mr. Dwight came to the door.

“What's this? What's this?” he demanded. “Fighting, are ye? Why don't

you tackle a fellow of your own size, Hi Strong?”

At that Dan, Junior, saw his chance and broke into woeful sobs. He was a

good actor.

“I've a mind to turn you over to a policeman, Hiram,” cried “Mr. Dwight,

That's what I've a mind to do.”

“I suppose you'll discharge me first, won't you?” suggested Hiram,

scornfully.

“You can come in and git your money right now, young man,” said the

proprietor of the Emporium. “Dan! let them oranges alone. And don't you

go away from here. I'll want you all day to-day. I shall be short-handed

with this young scalawag leaving me in the lurch like this.”

It had come so suddenly that Hiram almost lost his breath. He had part

of his wish, that was sure. He was not likely to work for Daniel Dwight

any longer.

The old man led the way back to his office. He had a little pile of

money already counted out upon the desk. It was plain that he had

intended quarreling with Hiram and getting rid of him at this time,

for he had the young fellow's wages figured up to t hat very hour--and

twenty cents deducted for the two hours Hiram had had “off.”

“But that isn't fair. I'm willing to work to the end of the day. I ought

to get my wages in full for the week, save for the twenty cents,” said

Hiram mildly.

To tell the truth, now that he had lost his job--unpleasant as it had

been--Hiram was more than a little troubled. He was indeed about to be

cast adrift.

“You'll git jest that sum, and not a cent more,” declared Mr. Dwight,

sharply. “And if you start any trouble here I'll call in the officer on

the beat--yes, I will! I don't know but I ought to deduct the cost of

Dan, Junior's, spoiled suit, too. He says you an' he was skylarkin' on

Sunday and that's how he fell into the water.”

Hiram had no answer to make to this. What was the use? He took the

money, slipped it into his pocket, and went out.

He did not linger around the Emporium. Nor was he scarcely out of sight

when a man driving a span of handsome bay horses halted his team before

the store, jumped out, and went in.

“Are you the proprietor of Dwight's Emporium?” asked the man in the

gray coat and hat, in his hearty tones. “You are? Glad to meet you! I'm

looking for a young man who works for you.”

“Who's that? What do you want of him?” asked Dan, Senior, doubtfully,

and rubbing his hand, for the stranger's grip had been as hearty as his

voice.

The other laughed in his jovial way. “Why, to tell the truth, I don't

know his name. I didn't ask him. He's not much more than a boy--a sturdy

youngster with a quick way with him. He did me a service the other

evening and I wanted to see him.”

“There ain't any boy working here,” snapped Mr. Dwight. “Them's all

the clerks I got behind the counter--and there ain't one of 'em under

thirty, I'll be bound.”

“That's so,” admitted the stranger. “And although it was so dark I could

not see that fellow's face, and I didn't ask his name, I am sure he was

young.”

“I jest discharged the only boy I had--and scamp enough he was,” snarled

Mr. Dwight. “If you were looking for him, you'd have been sorry to find

him. I didn't know but I'd have to send for a policeman to git him off

the premises.”

“What--what?”

“That's what I tell you. He was a bad egg. Mebbe he's the boy you

want--but you won't get no good of him when you find him. And I've no

idea where he's to be found now,” and the old man turned his back on the

man in the gray coat and went into his office.

The stranger climbed back into his buggy and took up the lines again

with a preoccupied headshake.

“Now, I promised Lettie,” he muttered, “that I'd find out all about that

boy--and maybe bring him home with me. Funny that man gave his such

a bad character. Wish I could have seen the lad's face the other

night--that would have told the story.

“Well,” and he dismissed the matter with a sigh, for he was busy man,

“if he's got my card, and he is out of a job, perhaps he'll look me up.

Then we'll see.”

CHAPTER VI. THIS DIDN'T GET BY HIRAM

“I've sure got plenty of time now to look for a job,” observed Hiram

Strong when he was two blocks away from Dwight's Emporium. “But I

declare I don't know where to begin.”

For his experience in talking with the farmers around the market had

rather dashed Hiram's hope of getting a place in the country at once. It

was too early in the season. Nor did it look so much like Spring as it

had a week ago. Already Hiram had to turn up the collar of his rough

coat, and a few flakes of snow were settling on his shoulders as he

walked.

“It's winter yet,” he mused. “If I can't get something to do in the

city for a few weeks to tide me over, I'm afraid I shall have to find a

cheaper place to board than at Mother Atterson's.”

After half an hour of strolling from street to street, however, Hiram

decided that there was nothing in that game. He must break in somewhere,

so he turned into the very next warehouse.

“Want a job? I'll be looking for one myself pretty soon, if business

isn't better,” was the answer he got from the first man he approached.

But Hiram kept at it, and got short answers and long answers, pleasant

ones and some that were not so pleasant; but all could be summed up in

the single monosyllable:

“No!”

“I certainly am a failure here in town,” Hiram thought, as he walked

through the snow-blown streets. “How foolish I was ever to have come

away from the country.

“A fellow ought to stick to the job he is fitted for--and that's sure.

But I didn't know. I thought there would be forty chances in town to one

in the country.

“And there doesn't seem to be a single chance right now. Why, I'll have

to leave Mrs. Atterson's, if I can't find a job before next week is out!

“This mean old town is over-crowded with fellows like me looking for

work. And when it comes to office positions, I haven't a high-school

diploma, nor am I fitted for that kind of a job.

“I want to be out of doors. Working in a stuffy office wouldn't suit me.

Oh, as a worker in the city I am a rank failure, and that's all there is

about it!”

He went home to supper much more tired than he would have been had he

done a full day's work at Dwight's Emporium. Indeed, the job he had lost

now loomed up in his troubled mind as much more important than it had

seemed when he had desired to change it for another.

Mother Atterson was at home. She hadn't more than taken off her bonnet,

however, and had had but a single clash with Chloe in the kitchen.

“I smelled it burnin' the minute I set my foot on the front step!”

she declared. “You can't fool my nose when it comes to smelling burned

stuff.

“Well, Hiram,” she continued, too full of news to remark that he was at

home long before his time, “I saw the poor old soul laid away, at least.

I wish now I'd got Chloe in before, and gone to see Uncle Jeptha before

he was in his coffin.

“But I didn't think I could afford it, and that's a fact. We poor folks

can't have many pleasures in this world of toil and trouble!” added

the boarding house mistress, to whom even the break of a funeral, or a

death-bed visit, was in the nature of a solemn amusement.

“And there the old man went and made his will years ago, unbeknownst to

anybody, and me bein' his only blood relation, as you might say, though

it was years since I seen him much, but he remembered my mother with

love,” and she began to wipe her eyes.

“Poor old man! And me with a white-faced cow that I'm afraid of my life

of, and an old horse that looks like a moth-eaten hide trunk we to

have in our garret at home when I was a little girl, and belonged to my

great-great-grandmother Atterson----

“And there's a mess of chickens that eat all day long and don't lay an

egg as far as I could see, besides a sow and a litter of six pigs that

squeal worse than the the switch-engine down yonder in the freight

yard----

“And they're all to be fed, and how I'm to do it, and feed the boarders,

too, I don't for the life of me see!” finished Mrs. Atterson, completely

out of breath.

“What do you mean?” cried Hiram, suddenly waking to the significance of

the old lady's chatter. “Do you mean he willed you these things?”

“Of course,” she returned, smoothing down her best black skirt. “They

go with the house and outbuildings--`all the chattels and appurtenances

thereto', the will read.”

“Why, Mrs. Atterson!” gasped Hiram. “He must have left you the farm.”

“That's what I said,” returned the old lady, complacently. “And what I'm

to do with it I've no more idea than the man in the moon.”

“A farm!” repeated Hiram, his face flushing and his eyes beginning to

shine.

Now, Hiram Strong was not a particularly handsome youth, but in his

excitement he almost looked so.

“Eighty acres, so many rods, and so many perches,” pursued Mrs.

Atterson, nodding. “That's the way it reads. The perches is in the

henhouse, I s'pose--though why the description included them and not the

hens' nests I dunno.”

“Eighty acres of land!” repeated Hiram in a daze.

“All free and clear. Not a dollar against it--only encumbrances is the

chickens, the cow, the horse and the pigs,” declared Mrs. Atterson. “If

it wasn't for them it might not be so bad. Scoville's an awfully nice

place, and the farm's on an automobile road. A body needn't go blind

looking for somebody to go by the door occasionally.

“And if it got so bad here finally that I couldn't make a livin' keeping

boarders,” pursued the lady, “I might go out there and live in the old

house--which isn't much, I know, but it's a shelter, and my tastes are

simple, goodness knows.”

“But a farm, Mrs. Atterson!” broke in Hiram. “Think what you can do with

it!”

“That's what I'd like to have, you, or somebody else tell me,” exclaimed

the old lady, tartly. “I ain't got no more use for a farm than a cat has

for two tails!”

“But--but isn't it a good farm?” queried Hiram, puzzled.

“How do I know?” snapped the boarding house mistress. “I wouldn't know

one farm from another, exceptin' two can't be in exactly the same spot.

Oh! do you mean, could I sell it?”

“No----”

“The lawyer advised me not to sell just now. He said something about the

state of the real estate market in that section. Prices would be better

in a year or two. And then, the old place is mighty run down.”

“That's what I mean,” Hiram hastened to say. “Has it been cropped to

death? Is the soil worn out? Can't you run it and make something out of

it?”

“For pity's sake!” ejaculated the good lady, “how should I know? And I

couldn't run it--I shouldn't know how.

“I've got a neighbor-woman in the house just now to 'tend to things--and

that's costin' me a dollar and a half a week. And there'll be taxes to

pay, and--and--Well, I just guess I'll have to try and sell it now and

take what I can get.

“Though that lawyer says that if the place was fixed up a little and

crops put in it would make a thousand dollars' difference in the selling

price. That is, after a year or two.

“But bless us and save us” cried Mrs. Atterson, “I'd be swamped with

expenses before that time.”

“Mebbe not,” said Hiram Strong, trying to repress his eagerness. “Why

not try it?”

“Try to run that farm?” cried she. “Why, I'd jest as lief go up in one

o' those aeroplanes and try to run it. I wouldn't be no more up in the

air then than I would be on a farm,” she added, grimly.

“Get somebody to run it for you--do the outside work, I mean, Mrs.

Atterson,” said Hiram. “You could keep house out there just as well as

you do here. And it would be easy for you to learn to milk----”

“That whitefaced cow? My goodness! I'd just as quick learn to milk a

switch-engine!”

“But it's only her head that looks so wicked to you,” laughed Hiram.

“And you don't milk that end.”

“Well--mebbe,” admitted Mrs. Atterson, doubtfully. “I reckon I could

make butter again--I used to do that when I was a girl at my aunt's. And

either I'd make those hens lay or I'd have their dratted heads off!

“And my goodness me! To get rid of the boarders--Oh, stop your talkin',

Hi Strong! That is too good to ever be true. Don't talk to me no more.”

“But I want to talk to you, Mrs. Atterson,” persisted the youth,

eagerly.

“Well, who'd I get to do the outside work--put in crops, and 'tend 'em,

and look out for that old horse?”

Hiram almost choked. This opportunity should not get past him if he

could help it!

“Let me do it, Mrs. Atterson. Give me a chance to show you what I can

do,” he cried. “Let me run the farm for you!”

“Why--why do you suppose that it could be made to pay us, Hi?” demanded

his landlady, in wonder.

“Other farms pay; why not this one?” rejoined Hiram, sententiously. “Of

course,” he added, his native caution coming to the surface, “I'd want

to see the place--to look it over pretty well, in fact--before I made

any agreement. And I can assure you, Mrs. Atterson, if I saw no chance

of both you and me making something out of it I should tell you so.”

“But--but your job, Hiram? And I wouldn't approve of your going out

there and lookin' at the place on a Sunday.”

“I'll take the early train Monday morning,” said the youth, promptly.

“But what will they say at the store? Mr. Dwight----”

“He turned me off to-day,” said Hiram, steadily. “So I won't lose

anything by going out there.

“I tell you what I'll do,” he added briskly. “I won't have any too much

money while I'm out of a job, of course. And I shall be out there at

Scoville a couple of days looking the place over, it's probable.

“So, if you will let me keep this three dollars and a half I should

pay you for my next week's board to-night, I'll pay my own expenses out

there at the farm and if nothing comes of it, all well and good.”

Mrs. Atterson had fumbled for her spectacles and now put them on to

survey the boy's earnest face.

“Do you mean to say you can run a farm, Hi Strong?” she asked.

“I do,” and he smiled confidently at her.

“And make it pay?”

“Perhaps not much profit the first season; but if the farm is fertile,

and the marketing conditions are right, I know I can make it pay us both

in two years.”

“I've got a little money saved up. I could sell the house in a week, for

it's always full and there are always lone women like me with a little

driblet of money to exchange for a boarding house--heaven help us for

the fools we are!” Mrs. Atterson exclaimed.

“And I expect you could raise vegetables enough to part keep us, Hi,

even if the farm wasn't a great success?”

“And eggs, and chickens, and the pigs, and milk from the cow,” suggested

Hiram.

“Well! I declare, that's so,” admitted Mrs. Atterson. “I'd been lookin'

on all them things as an expense. They could be made an asset, eh?”

“I should hope so,” responded Hiram, smiling.

“And I could get rid of these boarders--My soul and body!” gasped

the tired woman, suddenly. “Do you suppose it's true, Hi? Get rid of

worryin' about paying the bills, and whether the boarders are all going

to keep their jobs and be able to pay regularly--And the gravy!

“Hiram Strong! If you can show me a way out of this valley of

tribulation I'll be the thankfullest woman that you ever seen. It's a

bargain. Don't you pay me a cent for this coming week. And I shouldn't

have taken it, anyway, when you're throwed out of work so. That's a

mighty mean man, that Daniel Dwight.

“You go right ahead and look that farm over. If it looks good, you come

back and we'll strike a bargain, I know. And--and--Just to think

of getting rid of this house and these boarders!” and Mrs. Atterson

finished by wiping her eyes again vigorously.

CHAPTER VII. HOW HIRAM LEFT TOWN

Hiram Strong was up betimes on Monday morning--Sister saw to that. She

rapped on his door at four-thirty.

Sometimes Hiram wondered when the girl ever slept. She was still

dragging about the kitchen or dining-room when he went to bed, and she

was first down in the morning--even earlier than Mrs. Atterson herself.

The boarding house mistress was not intentionally severe with Sister;

but the much harassed lady had never learned to make her own work easy,

so how should she be expected to be easy on Sister?

Once or twice Hiram had talked with the orphan. Sister had a dreadful

fear of returning to the “institution” from which Mrs. Atterson had

taken her. And Sister's other fearful remembrance was of an old woman

who beat her and drank much gin and water.

Not that she had been ill-treated at the institution; but she had been

dressed in an ugly uniform, and the girls had been rough and pulled her

“pigtails” like Dan, Junior.

“Once a gentleman came to see me,” Sister confided to Hiram. “He was

a lawyer gentleman, the matron told me. He knew my name--but I've

forgotten it now.

“And he said that somebody who once belonged to me--or I once belonged

to them--had died and perhaps there would be some money coming to me.

But it couldn't have been the old woman I lived with, for she never had

only money enough for gin!

“Anyhow, I was glad. I axed him how much money--was it enough to treat

all the girls in the institution one round of ice-cream soda, and he

laffed, he did. And he said yes--just about enough for that, if he could

get it for me. And I ran away and told the girls.

“I promised them all a treat. But the man never came again, and by and

by the big girls said they believed I storied about it, and one night

they came and dragged me out of bed and hung me out of the window by my

wrists, till I thought my arms would be pulled right out of the sockets.

They was awful cruel--them girls. But when I axed the matron why the

man didn't come no more, she put me off. I guess he was only

foolin',” decided Sister, with a sigh. “Folks like to fool me--like Mr.

Crackit--eh?”

But Mrs. Atterson told Hiram, when he asked about Sister's meagre little

story, that the institution had promised to let her know if the lawyer

ever returned to make further inquiries about the orphan. Somebody

really had died who was of kin to the girl, but through some error the

institution had not made a proper record of her pedigree and the lawyer

who had instituted the search a seemed to have dropped out of sight.

But Hiram was not troubled by poor Sister's private affairs upon this

Monday morning. It was the beginning of a new week, indeed, to him. He

had turned over a new leaf of experience. He hoped that he was pretty

near to the end of his harsh city existence.

He hurried downstairs, long in advance of the other boarders, and Mrs.

Atterson served him some breakfast, although there was no milk for the

coffee.

“I dunno where that plague o' my life, Sister's, gone,” sputtered the

old lady, fussing about, between dining-room and kitchen. “I sent her

out ten minutes ago for the milk. And if you want to get that first

train to Scoville you've got to hurry.”

“Never mind the milk,” laughed the young fellow. “The train's more

important this morning.”

So he bolted the remainder of his breakfast, swallowed the black coffee,

and ran out.

He arrived at Scoville while the morning was still young. It was not his

intention to go at once to the Atterson farm. There were matters which

he desired to look into in addition to judging the quality of the soil

on the place and the possibility of making it pay.

He went to the storekeepers and asked questions about the prices paid

for garden truck. He walked about the town and saw the quality of

the residences, and noted what proportion of the townsfolk cultivated

gardens of their own.

There was a big girls' boarding-school, and two small, but

well-patronized hotels. The proprietors of these each owned a farm;

but they told Hiram that it was necessary for them to buy much of their

table vegetables from city produce men, as the neighboring farmers did

not grow much.

In talking with one storekeeper Hiram mentioned the fact that he was

going to look at the Atterson place with a view to farming it for its

new owner. When he walked out of the store he found himself accosted

by a lean, snaky-looking man who had stood within the store the moment

before.

“What's this widder woman goin' to do with the farm old Jeptha left

her?” inquired the man, looking at Hiram slyly.

“We don't know yet, sir, what we shall do with it,” the young fellow

replied.

“You her son?”

“No. I may work for her--can't tell till I've looked at the place.”

“It ain't much to look at,” said the man, quickly. “I come near buying

it once, though. In fact--”

He hesitated, still eyeing Hiram sideways. The boy waited for him to

speak again. He did not wish to be impolite; but he did not like the

man's appearance.

“What do y' reckon this Mis' Atterson would sell for?” finally demanded

the man.

“She has been advised not to sell--at present.”

“Who by?”

“Mr. Strickland, the lawyer.”

“Humph! Mebbe I'd buy it--and give her a good price for it--right now.”

“What do you consider a good price?” asked Hiram, quietly.

“Twelve hundred dollars,” said the man.

“I will tell her. But I do not think she would sell for that

price--nothing like it, in fact.”

“Well, mebbe she'll feel different when she comes to think it over.

No use for a woman trying to run a farm. And if she has to pay for

everything to be done, she'll be in a hole at the end of the season. I

guess she ain't thought of that?”

“It wouldn't be my place to point it out to her,” returned Hiram,

“coolly, if it were so, and I wanted to work for her.”

“Humph! Mebbe not. Well, my name's Pepper. Mebbe I'll be out to see her

some day,” he said, and turned away.

“He's one of the people who will discourage Mrs. Atterson,” thought

Hiram. “And he has an axe to grind. If I decide to take the job of

making this farm pay, I'm going to have the agreement in black and

white with Mrs. Atterson; for there will be a raft of Job's comforters,

perhaps when we get settled on the place.”

It was late in the afternoon before Hiram was ready to start for the

farm itself. He had made some enquiries, and had decided to stop at a

neighbor's for overnight, instead of going to the house where a lone

woman had been left in charge by Mrs. Atterson.

The Pollocks had been recommended to Hiram, and by leaving the road

within half a mile of the Atterson farm, and cutting across the fields,

he came into the dooryard of the Pollock place. A well-grown boy, not

much older than himself, was splitting some chunks at the woodpile. He

stopped work to gaze at the visitor with much curiosity.

“From what they told me in town,” Hi said, holding out his hand with a

smile, “you must be Henry Pollock?”

The boy blushed, but awkwardly took and shook Hi's hand.

“That's what they call me--Henry Pollock--when they don't call me Hen.”

“Well, I'll make a bargain with you, Henry,” laughed Hiram. “I don't

like to have my name cut off short, either. My name's Hiram Strong. So

if you'll agree to always call me `Hiram' I'll always call you `Henry.'”

“It's a go!” returned the other, shaking hands again. “You going to live

around here? Or are you jest visiting?”

“I don't know yet,” confessed Hiram, sitting down beside the boy. “You

see, I've come out to look at the Atterson place.”

“That's right over yonder. You can see the roof if you stand up,” said

Henry, quickly.

Hiram stood up and, in the light of the early sunset, he caught a

glimpse of the roof in question.

“Your folks going to buy it of the old lady Uncle Jeptha left it to?”

asked Henry, with pardonable curiosity. “Or are you going to rent it?”

“What do you think of renting it?” queried Hiram, showing that he had

Yankee blood in him by answering one question with another.

“Well--it's pretty well run down, and that's a fact. The old man

couldn't do much the last few years, and them Dickersons who farmed it

for him ain't no great shakes of farmers, now I tell you!”

“Well, I want to look the farm over before I decide what I'll do,” said

Hiram, slowly. “And of course I can't do that to-night. They told me in

town that sometimes you take boarders?”

“In the summer we do,” returned Henry.

“Do you think your folks will put me up overnight?”

“Why, I reckon so--Hiram Strong, did you say your name was? Come right

in,” added Henry, hospitably, “and I'll ask mother.”

CHAPTER VIII. THE LURE OF GREEN FIELDS

The Pollocks proved to be a neighborly family--and a large one. As Henry

said, there was a “whole raft of young 'uns” younger than he was. They

made Hiram very welcome at the supper table, and showed much curiosity

about his personal affairs.

But the young fellow had been used to just such people before. They were

not a bad sort, and if they were keenly interested in the affairs of

other people, it was because they had few books and newspapers, and

small chance to amuse themselves in the many ways which city people

have.

Hiram slept with Henry that night, and Henry agreed to show the visitor

over the Atterson place the next day.

“I know every stick and stone of it as well as I do ourn,” declared

Henry. “And Dad won't mind my taking time now. Later--Whew! I tell you,

we hafter just git up an' dust to make a crop. Not much chance for fun

after a week or two until the corn's laid by.”

“You know all the boundaries of the Atterson farm, do you?” Hiram asked.

“Yes, sir!” replied Henry, eagerly. “And say! do you like to fish?”

“Of course; who doesn't?”

“Then we'll take some lines and hooks along--and mother'll lend us a pan

and kettle. Say! We'll start early--'fore anybody's a-stir--and I bet

there'll be a big trout jumping in the pool under the big sycamore.”

“That certain-sure sounds good to me!” cried Hiram, enthusiastically.

So it was agreed, and before day, while the mist was yet rolling across

the fields, and the hedge sparrows were beginning to chirp, the two set

forth from the Pollock place, crossed the wet fields, and the road, and

set off down the slope of a long hill, following, as Henry said, near

the east boundary of the Atterson farm--the line running from the

automobile road to the river.

It was a dull spring morning. The faint breeze that stirred on the

hillside was damp, but odorous with new-springing herbs. As Hiram

and Henry descended the aisle of the pinewood, the treetops whispered

together as though curious of these bold humans who disturbed their

solitude.

“It doesn't look as though anybody had been here at the back end of old

Jeptha Atterson's farm for years,” said Hiram.

“And it's a fact that nobody gets down this way often,” Henry responded.

The brown tags sprung under their feet; now and then a dew-wet branch

swept Hiram's cheek, seeking with its cold fingers to stay his progress.

It was an enchanted forest, and the boy, heart-hungry from his two years

of city life, was enchanted, too!

Hiram learned from talking with his companion that at one time the

piece of thirty-year-old timber they were walking through had been

tilled--after a fashion. But it had never been properly cleared, as the

hacked and ancient stumpage betrayed.

Here and there the lines of corn rows which had been plowed when the

last crop was laid by were plainly revealed to Hiram's observing eye.

Where corn had grown once, it should grow again; and the pine timber

would more than pay for being cut, for blowing out the big stumps with

dynamite, and tam-harrowing the side hill.

Finally they reached a point where the ground fell away more abruptly

and the character of the timber changed, as well. Instead of the stately

pines, this more abrupt declivity was covered with hickory and oak. The

sparse brush sprang out of rank, black mold.

Charmed by the prospect, Hiram and Henry descended this hill and came

suddenly, through a fringe of brush, to the border of an open cove, or

bottom.

At some time this lowland, too, had been cleared and cultivated; but now

young pines, quick-springing and lush, dotted the five or six acres of

practically open land which was as level as one's palm.

It was two hundred yards, or more, in width and at the farther side

a hedge of alders and pussywillows grew, with the green mist of young

leaves upon them, and here and there a ghostly sycamore, stretching its

slender bole into the air, edged the course of the river.

Hiram viewed the scene with growing delight. His eyes sparkled and

a smile came to his lips as he crossed, with springy steps, the open

meadow on which the grass was already showing green in patches.

Between the line of the wood they had left and the breadth of the meadow

was a narrow, marshy strip into which a few stones had been cast, and on

these they crossed dry shod. The remainder of the bottom-land was firm.

“Ain't this jest a scrumptious place?” demanded Henry, and Hiram agreed.

At the river's edge they parted the bushes and looked down upon the

oily-flowing brown flood. It was some thirty feet broad and with the

melting of the snows in the mountains was so deep that no sign was

apparent here of the rocks which covered its bed.

Henry led the way up the bank of the stream toward a huge sycamore that

leaned lovingly over the water. An ancient wild grape vine, its

butt four inches through and its roots fairly in the water, had a

strangle-hold upon this decrepit forest monarch, its tendrils reaching

the sycamore's topmost branch.

Under the tree was a deep hole where flotsam leaves and twigs performed

an endless treadmill dance in the grasp of the eddy.

Suddenly, while their gaze clung to the dimpling water, there was a

flash of a bronze body--a streak of light along the surface of the

pool--and two widening circles showed where the master of the hole had

leaped for some insect prey.

“See him?” called Henry, but under his breath.

Hiram nodded, but squeezed his companion's hand for silence. He almost

held his own breath for the moment, as they moved back from the pool

with the soundless step of an Indian.

“That big feller is my meat,” declared Henry.

“Go to it, boy!” urged Hiram, and set about preparing the camp.

He cut with his big jack-knife and set up a tripod of green rods in a

jiffy, skirmished for dry wood, lit his fire, filled the kettle from the

river at a little distance from the eddy, and hung it over the blaze to

boil.

Meanwhile Henry fished out a line and an envelope of hooks from an inner

pocket, cut a springy pole back on the hillside, rigged his line and

hook, and kicked a hole in the soft, rich soil until he unearthed a fat

angleworm.

With this impaled upon the hook he cautiously approached the pool under

the sycamore and cast gently. The struggling worm sank slowly; the water

wrinkled about the line; but there followed no tug at the hook, although

Henry stood patiently for several moments. He cast again, and yet again,

with like result.

“Ah, ba!” muttered Hiram, in his ear; “this fellow's appetite needs

tickling. He is being fed too well and turns up his nose at a common

earthworm, does he? Let me show you a wrinkle, Henry.”

Henry drew the line ashore again and shook off the useless bait.

“You're, not fishing,” Hiram continued with a grim smile. “You've just

been drowning a worm. But I'll show that old fellow sulking down below

there that he is no match this early in the spring for a pair of hungry

boys!”

He recrossed the meadow, and the stepping stones, to the wood. He had

noticed a log lying in the path as he descended the hillside. With the

toe of his boot he kicked a patch of bark from the log, and thereby lay

bare the wavering trail of a busy grub. Following the trail he quickly

found the fat, juicy insect, which immediately took the earthworm's

place upon the hook.

Again Henry cast and this time, before the grub even touched the surface

of the pool, the fish leaped and swallowed the tempting morsel, hook and

all!

There was no playing of the fish on Henry's part. A quick jerk and the

gasping spotted beauty, a pound and a quarter, or more, in weight, lay

upon the sward beside the crackling fire.

“Whoop-ee!” called Henry, excitedly. “That's Number One!”

While Hiram dexterously scaled and cleaned the first trout, Henry caught

a couple more. Hiram brought forth, too, the coffee, salt and pepper,

sugar, a piece of fat salt pork and two table knives and forks.

He raked a smooth bed in the glowing coals, sliced the pork thin, laid

some slices in the pan and set that upon the coals, where the pork began

to sputter almost at once.

The water in the kettle was boiling and he made the coffee. Then he laid

the trout upon the pan with three slices of pork upon each, and sat

back upon his haunches beside Henry enjoying the delicious odor in

anticipation of the more solid delights of breakfast.

They had hard crackers and with these, and drinking the coffee from

the kettle itself, when it was cool enough, the two boys feasted like

monarchs.

“By Jo!” exclaimed Henry. “This beats maw's soda biscuit and fat meat

gravy!”

But as he ate, Hiram's gaze traveled again and again across the

scrub-grown meadow. The lay of the land pleased him. The richness of the

soil had been revealed when they dug the earthworm.

For thousands of years the riches of yonder hillside had been washing

down upon the bottom, and this alluvial was rich beyond computation.

Here were several acres, the young farmer knew, which, however

over-cropped the remainder of Uncle Jeptha's land had been, could not be

impoverished in many seasons.

“It's as rich as cream!” muttered he, thoughtfully. “Grubbing out these

young pines wouldn't take long. There's a heavy sod and it would have

to be ploughed deeply. Then a crop of corn this year, perhaps--late corn

for fear the river might overflow it in June. And then----

“Great Scot!” ejaculated Hiram, slapping his knee, “what wouldn't grow

on this bottom land?”

“Yes, it's mighty rich,” agreed Henry. “But it's a long way from the

house--and then, the river might flood it over. I've seen water running

over this bottom two feet deep--once.”

They finished the al fresco meal and Hiram leaped up, inspired by his

thoughts to brisker movements.

“Whatever else this old farm has on it, I vow and declare,” he said,

“this five or six acres alone might be made to pay a profit on the whole

investment!”

CHAPTER IX. THE BARGAIN IS MADE

Henry showed Hiram the “branch”, a little stream flowing into the river,

which marked the westerly boundary of the farm for some ways, and they

set off up the steep bank of this stream.

This back end of the farm--quite forty acres, or half of the whole

tract--had been entirely neglected by the last owner of the property for

a great many years. It was some distance from the house, for the farm

was a long and narrow strip of land from the highway to the river, and

Uncle Jeptha had had quite all he could do to till the uplands and the

fields adjacent to his home.

They came upon these open fields--many of them filthy with dead weeds

and littered with sprouting bushes--from the rear. Hiram saw that the

fences were in bad repair and that the back of the premises gave every

indication of neglect and shiftlessness.

Perhaps not exactly the latter; Uncle Jeptha had been an old man and

unable to do much active work for some years. But he had cropped certain

of his fields “on shares” with the usual results--impoverished soil,

illy-tilled crops, and the land left in a slovenly condition which

several years of careful tillage would hardly overcome.

Now, although Hiram's father had been of the tenant class, he had farmed

other men's land as he would his own. Owners of outlying farms had been

glad to get Mr. Strong to till their fields.

He had known how to work, he knew the reasons for every bit of labor

he performed, and he had not kept his son in ignorance of them. As they

worked together the father had explained to the son what he did, and why

he did it, The results of their work spoke for themselves, and Hiram had

a retentive memory.

Mr. Strong, too, had been a great, reader--especially in the winter when

the farmer naturally has more time in-doors.

Yet he was a “twelve months farmer”; he knew that the winter, despite

the broken nature of the work, was quite as valuable to the successful

farmer as the other seasons of the year.

The elder Strong knew that men with more money, and more time for

experimenting than he had, were writing and publishing all the time

helps for the wise farmer. He subscribed for several papers, and read

and digested them carefully.

Hiram, even during his two years in the city, had continued his

subscription (although it was hard to find the money sometimes) to two

or three of those publications that his father had most approved. And

the boy had read them faithfully.

He was as up-to-date in farming lore now, if not in actual practise, as

he had been when he left the country to try his fortune in Crawberry.

Beyond the place where the branch turned back upon itself and hid its

source in the thicker timber, Hiram saw that the fields were open on

both sides of this westerly line of the farm.

“Who's our neighbor over yonder, Henry?” he asked.

“Dickerson--Sam Dickerson,” said Henry. “And he's got a boy, Pete, no

older than us. Say, Hiram, you'll have trouble with Pete Dickerson.”

“Oh, I guess not,” returned the young farmer, laughing. “Trouble is

something that I don't go about hunting for.”

“You don't have to hunt it when Pete is round,” said Henry with a wry

grin. “But mebbe he won't bother you, for he's workin' near town--for

that new man that's moved into the old Fleigler place. Bronson's his

name. But if Pete don't bother you, Sam may.”

“Sam's the father?”

“Yep. And one poor farmer and mean man, if ever there was one! Oh, Pete

comes by his orneriness honestly enough.”

“Oh, I hope I'll have no trouble with any neighbor,” said Hiram,

hopefully.

They came briskly to the outbuildings belonging to Mrs. Atterson's newly

acquired legacy. Hiram glanced into the hog lot. She looked like a good

sow, and the six-weeks-old shoats were in good condition. In a couple of

weeks they would be big enough to sell if Mrs. Atterson did not care to

raise them.

The shoats were worth six dollars a pair, too; he had inquired the day

before about them. There was practically eighteen dollars squealing in

that pen--and eighteen dollars would go a long way toward feeding the

horse and cow until there was good pasturage for them.

These animals named were in the small fenced barnyard. In the fall and

winter the old man had fed a good deal of fodder and other roughage, and

during the winter the horse and cow had tramped this coarse material,

and the stable scrapings, into a mat of fairly good manure.

He looked the horse and cow over with more care. It was a fact that

the horse looked pretty shaggy; but he had been used little during

the winter, and had been seldom curried. A ragged coat upon a horse

sometimes covers quite as many good points as the same quality of

garment does upon a man.

When Hiram spoke to the beast it came to the fence with a friendly

forward thrust of its ears, and the confidence of a horse that has been

kindly treated and looks upon even a strange human as a friend.

It was a strong and well-shaped animal, more than twelve years old,

as Hiram discovered when he opened the creature's mouth, but seemingly

sound in limb. Nor was he too large for work on the cultivator, while

sturdy enough to carry a single plow.

Hiram passed him over with a satisfactory pat on the nose and turned

to look at the white-faced cow that had so terrified Mrs. Atterson. She

wasn't a bad looking beast, either, and would freshen shortly. Her calf

would be worth from twelve to fifteen dollars if Mrs. Atterson did not

wish to raise it. Another future asset to mention to the old lady when

he returned.

The youth turned his attention to the buildings themselves--the barn,

the cart shed, the henhouse, and the smaller buildings. That famous old

decorating firm of Wind & Weather had contracted for all painting done

around the Atterson place for the many years; but the buildings were not

otherwise in a bad state of repair.

A few shingles had been blown off the roofs; here and there a board was

loose. With a hammer and a few nails, and in a few hours, many of these

small repairs could be accomplished. And a coat or two of properly

mixed and applied whitewash would freshen up the whole place and--like

charity--cover a multitude of sins.

Henry bade him good-bye now, they shook hands, and Hiram agreed to let

his new friend know at once if he decided to come with Mrs. Atterson to

the farm.

“We can have heaps of fun--you and me,” declared Henry.

“It isn't so bad,” soliloquized the young farmer when he was alone.

“There'd be time to put the buildings and fences in good shape before

the spring work came on with a rush. There's fertilizer enough in the

barnyard and the pig pen and the hen run--with the help of a few pounds

of salts and some bone meal, perhaps--to enrich a right smart kitchen

garden and spread for corn on that four acre lot yonder.

“Of course, this land up here on the hill needs humus. If it has been

cropped on shares, as Henry says, all the enrichment it has received

has been from commercial fertilizers. And necessarily they have made the

land sour. It probably needs lime badly.

“Yes, I can't encourage Mrs. Atterson to look for a profit in anything

this year. It will take a year to get that rich bottom into shape

for--for what, I wonder? Onions? Celery? It would raise 'em both. I'll

think about that and look over the market prospects more fully before I

decide.”

For already, you see, Hiram had come to the decision that this old farm

could be made to pay. Why not? The true farmer has to have imagination

as well as the knowledge and the perseverance to grow crops. He must be

able in his mind's eye to see a field ready for the reaping before he

puts in a seed.

He did not go to the house on this occasion, but after casually

examining the tools and harness, and the like, left by the old man, he

cut off across the upper end of the farm and gave the neglected open

fields of this upper forty a casual examination.

“If she had the money to invest, I'd say buy sheep and fence these

fields and so get rid of the weeds. They've grown very foul through

neglect, and cultivating them for years would not destroy the weeds as

sheep would in two seasons.

“But wire fencing is expensive--and so are good sheep to begin with. No.

Slow but sure must be our motto. I mustn't advise any great outlay of

money--that would scare her to death.

“It will be hard enough for her to put out money all season long before

there are any returns. We'll go, slow,” repeated Hiram.

But when he left the farm that afternoon he went swiftly enough to

Scoville and took the train for the not far distant city of Crawberry.

This was Tuesday evening and he arrived just about supper time at Mrs.

Atterson's.

The reason for Hiram's absence, and the matter of Mrs. Atterson's legacy

altogether, had been kept from the boarders. And there was no time until

after the principal meal of the day was off the lady's mind for Hiram to

say anything to her.

“She's a good old soul,” thought Hiram. “And if it's in my power to make

that farm pay, and yield her a competency for her old age, I'll do it.”

Meanwhile he was not losing sight of the fact that there was something

due to him in this matter. He was bound to see that he got his

share--and a just share--of any profits that might accrue from the

venture.

So, after the other boarders had scattered, and Mrs. Atterson had eaten

her own late supper, and Sister was swashing plates and knives and forks

about in a big pan of hot water in the kitchen sink, (between whiles

doing her best to listen at the crack of the door) the landlady and

Hiram Strong threshed out the project fully.

It was not all one-sided; for Mrs. Atterson, after all, had been

bargaining all her life and could see the “main chance” as quickly as

the next one. She had not bickered with hucksters, chivvied grocerymen,

fought battles royal with butchers, and endured the existence of a Red

Indian amidst allied foes for two decades without having her wits ground

to a razor edge.

On the other hand, Hiram Strong, although a boy in years, had been his

own master long enough to take care of himself in most transactions, and

withal had a fund of native caution. They jotted down memoranda of the

points on which they were agreed, which included the following:

Mrs. Atterson, as “party of the first part”, agreed to board Hiram until

the crops were harvested the second year. In addition she was to pay

him one hundred dollars at Christmas time this first year, and another

hundred at the conclusion of the agreement--i. e., when the second

year's crop was harvested.

Beside, of the estimated profits of the second year's crop, Hiram was

to have twenty-five per cent. This profit was to be that balance in the

farm's favor (if such balance there was) over and above the actual cost

of labor, seed, and such purchased fertilizer or other supplies as were

necessary. Mrs. Atterson agreed likewise to supply one serviceable horse

and such tools as might be needed, for the place was to be run as “a

one-horse farm.”

On the other hand Hiram agreed to give his entire time to the farm, to

work for Mrs. Atterson's interest in all things, to make no expenditures

without discussing them first with her, and to give his best care and

attention generally to the farm and all that pertained thereto. Of

course, the old lady was taking Hiram a good deal on trust. But she had

known the boy almost two years and he had been faithful and prompt in

discharging his debts to her.

But it was up to the young fellow to “make good.” He could not expect

to make any profit for his employer the first year; but he would be

expected to do so the second season, or “show cause.”

When these matters were all discussed and the little memorandum

signed, Hiram Strong, in his own room, thought the situation over very

seriously. He was facing the biggest responsibility that he had obliged

to assume in his whole life.

This was no boyish job; it was man's work. He had put his hand to an

agreement that might influence his whole future, and certainly would

make or break his credit as a trustworthy youth and one of his word.

During these past days Hiram had determined to “get back to the soil”

and to get back to it in a business-like way. He desired to make good

for Mrs. Atterson so that he might some time have the chance to make

good for somebody else on a bigger scale.

He did not propose to be “a one-horse farmer” all his days.

CHAPTER X. THE SOUND OF BEATING HOOFS

On Monday morning Mrs. Atterson put her house in the agent's hands. On

Wednesday a pair of spinster ladies came to look at it. They came again

on Thursday and again on Friday.

Friday being considered an “unlucky” day they did not bind the bargain;

but on Saturday money was passed, and the new keepers of the house were

to take possession in a week. Not until then were the boarders informed

of Mother Atterson's change of circumstances, and the fact that she was

going to graduate from the boarding house kitchen to the farm.

After all, they were sorry--those light-headed, irresponsible young

men. There wasn't one of them, from Crackit down the line, who could

not easily remember some special kindness that marked the old lady's

intercourse with him.

As soon as the fact was announced that the boarding house had changed

hands, the boarders were up in arms. There was a wild gabble of voices,

over the supper table that night. Crackit led the chorus.

“It's a mean trick. Mother Atterson has sold us like so many cattle to

the highest bidder. Ungrateful--right down ungrateful, I call it,” he

declared. “What do you say, Feeble?”

“It is particularly distasteful to me just now,” complained the invalid.

“When Sister has learned to give me my hot water at just the right

temperature,” and he took a sip of that innocent beverage. “Don't you

suppose we could prevail upon the old lady to renig?”

“She's bound to put us off with half rations for the rest of the time

she stays,” declared Crackit, shaking his head wisely. “She's got

nothing to lose now. She don't care if we all up and leave--after she

gets hers.”

“That's always the way,” feebly remarked Mr. Peebles. “Just as soon as I

really get settled down into a half-decent lodging, something happens.”

Mr. Peebles had been a fixture at Mother Atterson's for nearly ten

years. Only Old Lem Camp had been longer at the place.

The latter was the only boarder who had no adverse criticism for the

mistress's new move. Indeed this evening Mr. Camp said nothing whatever;

even his usual mumblings to himself were not heard.

He ate slowly, and but little. He was still sitting at the table when

all the others had departed.

Mrs. Atterson started into the dining-room with her own supper between

two plates when she saw the old man sitting there despondent in looks

and attitude, his head resting on one clawlike hand, his elbow on the

soiled table cloth.

He did not look up, nor move. The mistress glanced back over her

shoulder, and there was Sister, sniffling and occasionally rubbing her

wrist into her red eyes as she scraped the tower of plates from the

dinner table.

“My soul and body!” gasped Mother Atterson, almost dropping her supper

on the floor. “There's Sister--and there's Old Lem Camp! Whatever will I

do with 'em?”

Meanwhile Hiram Strong had already left for the farm on the Wednesday

previous. The other boarders knew nothing about his agreement with

Mother Atterson; he had agreed to go to the place and begin work, and

take care of the stock and all, “choring for himself”, as the good lady

called it, until she could complete her city affairs and move herself

and her personal chattels to the farm.

Hiram bore a note to the woman who had promised to care for the Atterson

place, and money to pay her what the boarding-house mistress had agreed.

“You can 'bach' it in the house as well as poor old Uncle Jeptha did, I

reckon,” this woman told the youth.

She showed him where certain provisions were--the pork barrel, ham and

bacon of the old man's curing, and the few vegetables remaining from the

winter's store.

“The cow was about gone dry, anyway,” said the woman, Mrs. Larriper, who

was a widow and lived with her married daughter some half-mile down the

road toward Scoville, “so I didn't bother to milk her.

“You'll have to go to town to buy grain, if you want to feed her up--and

for the chickens and the horse. The old man didn't make much of a crop

last year--or them shiftless Dickersons didn't make much for him.

“I saw Sam Dickerson around here this morning. He borrowed some of the

old man's tools when Uncle Jeptha was sick, and you'll have to go after

'em, I reckon.

“Sam's the best borrower that ever was; but he never can remember to

bring things back. He says it's bad enough to have to borrow; it's too

much to expect the same man to return what he borrows.

“Now, Mrs. Dickerson,” pursued Mrs. Larriper, “was as nice a girl before

she married--she was a Stepney--as ever walked in shoe-leather. And I

guess she'd be right friendly with the neighbors if Sam would let her.

“But the poor thing never gits to go out--no, sir! She's jest tied to

the house. They lost a child once--four year ago. That's the only time

I remember of seeing Sarah Stepney in church since the day she was

married--and she's got a boy--Pete--as old as you be.

“Now, on the other side o' ye there's Darrell's tract, and you won't

have no trouble there, for there ain't a house on his place, and he lets

it lie idle. Waiting for a rise in price, I 'spect.

“Some rich folks is comin' in and buying up pieces of land and making

what they calls 'gentlemen's estates' out o' them. A family named

Bronson--Mr. Stephen Bronson, with one little girl--bought the Fleigler

place only last month.

“They're nice folks,” pursued this amiable but talkative lady, “and

they don't live but a mile or so along the Scoville road. You passed the

place--white, with green shutters, and a water-tower in the back, when

you walked up.”

“I remember it,” said Hiram, nodding.

“They're western folk. Come clear from out in Injiany, or Illiny, or

the like. The girl's going to school and she ain't got no mother, so her

father's come on East with her to be near the school.

“Well, I can't help you no more. Them hens! Well, I'd sell 'em if I was

Mis' Atterson.

“Hens ain't much nowadays, anyhow; and I expect a good many of those are

too old to lay. Uncle Jeptha couldn't fuss with chickens, and he didn't

raise only a smitch of 'em last year and the year before--just them that

the hens hatched themselves in stolen nests, and chanced to bring up

alive.

“You better grease the cart before you use it. It's stood since they

hauled in corn last fall.

“And look out for Dickerson. Ask him for the things he borrowed. You'll

need 'em, p'r'aps, if you're goin' to do any farmin' for Mis' Atterson.”

She bustled away. Hiram thought he had heard enough about his neighbors

for a while, and he went out to look over the pasture fencing, which was

to be his first repair job. He would have that ready to turn the cow and

her calf into as soon as the grass began to grow.

He rummaged about in what had been half woodshed and half workshop

in Uncle Jeptha's time, and found a heavy claw-hammer, a pair of wire

cutters, and a pocket full of fence staples.

With this outfit he prepared to follow the line fence, which was

likewise the pasture fence on the west side, between Mrs. Atterson's and

Dickerson's.

Where he could, he mended the broken strands of wire. In other places

the wires had sagged and were loose. The claw-hammer fixed these like

a charm. Slipping the wire into the claw, a single twist of the wrist

would usually pick up the sag and make the wire taut again at that

point.

He drove a few staples, as needed, as he walked along. The pasture

partook of the general conformation of the farm--it was rather long and

narrow.

It had grown to clumps of bushes in spots, and there was sufficient

shade. But he did not come to the water until he reached the lower end

of the lot.

The branch trickled from a spring, or springs, farther east. It made

an elbow at the corner of the pasture--the lower south-west corner--and

there a water-hole had been scooped out at some past time.

This waterhole was deep enough for all purposes, and was shaded by a

great oak that had stood there long before the house belonging to Jeptha

Atterson had been built.

Here Hiram struck something that puzzled him. The boundary fence crossed

this water-hole at a tangent, and recrossed to the west bank of the

outflowing branch a few yards below, leaving perhaps half of the

water-hole upon the neighbor's side of the fence.

Some of this wire at the water-hole was practically new. So were the

posts. And after a little Hiram traced the line of old postholes which

had followed a straight line on the west side of the water-hole.

In other words, this water-privilege for Dickerson's land was of recent

arrangement--so recent indeed, that the young farmer believed he could

see some fresh-turned earth about the newly-set posts.

“That's something to be looked into, I am afraid,” thought Hiram, as he

moved along the southern pasture fence.

But the trickle of the branch beckoned him; he had not found the

fountain-head of the little stream when he had walked over a part of the

timbered land with Henry Pollock, and now he struck into the open woods

again, digging into the soil here and there with his heavy boot, marking

the quality and age of the timber, and casting-up in his mind the

possibilities and expense of clearing these overgrown acres.

“Mrs. Atterson may have a very valuable piece of land here in time,”

muttered Hiram. “A sawmill set up in here could cut many a hundred

thousand feet of lumber--and good lumber, too. But it would spoil the

beauty of the farm.”

However, as must ever be in the case of the utility farm, the house was

set on its ugliest part. The cleared fields along the road had nothing

but the background of woods on the south and east to relieve their

monotony.

On the brow of the steeper descent, which he had noted on his former

visit to the back end of the farm, he found a certain clearing in the

wood. Here the pines surrounded the opening on three sides.

To the south, through a break in the wooded hillside, he obtained a

far-reaching view of the river valley as it lay, to the east and to the

west. The prospect was delightful.

Here and there, on the farther bank of the river, which rose less

abruptly there than on this side, lay several cheerful looking

farmsteads. The white dwellings and outbuildings dotted the checkered

fields of green and brown.

Cowbells tinkled in the distance, for the weather tempted farmers to let

their cattle run in the pastures even so early in the season. A horse

whinnied shrilly to a mate in a distant field.

The creaking of the heavy wheels of a laden farm-cart was a mellow sound

in Hiram's ears. Beyond a fir plantation, high on the hillside, the

sharply outlined steeple of a little church lay against the soft blue

horizon.

“A beauty-spot!” Hiram muttered. “What a site for a home! And yet people

want to build their houses right on an automobile road, and in sight of

the rural mail box!”

His imagination began to riot, spurred by the outlook and by the nearer

prospect of wood and hillside. The sun now lay warmly upon him as he sat

upon a stump and drank in the beauty of it all.

After a time his ear, becoming attuned to the multitudinous voices

of the wood, descried the silvery note of falling water. He arose and

traced the sound.

Less than twenty yards away, and not far from the bluff, a vigorous

rivulet started from beneath the half-bared roots of a monster beech,

and fell over an outcropping boulder into a pool so clear that sand

on its bottom, worked mysteriously into a pattern by the action of the

water, lay revealed.

Hiram knelt on a mossy rock beside the pool, and bending put his lips

to the water. It was the sweetest, most satisfying drink, he had imbibed

for many a day.

But the morning was growing old, and Hiram wanted to trace the farther

line of the farm. He went down to the river, crossed the open meadow

again where they had built the campfire the morning before, and found

the deeply scarred oak which stood exactly on the boundary line between

the Atterson and Darrell tracts.

He turned to the north, and followed the line as nearly as might be. The

Darrell tract was entirely wooded, and when he reached the uplands

he kept on in the shadowy aisles of the sap-pines which covered his

neighbor's property.

He came finally to where the ground fell away again, and the yellow,

deeply-rutted road lay at his feet. The winter had played havoc with the

automobile track.

The highway was unfenced and the bank dropped fifteen feet to the beaten

path. A leaning oak overhung the road and Hiram lingered here, lying

on its broad trunk, face upward, with his hat pulled over his eyes to

shield them from the sunlight which filtered through the branches.

This land hereabout was beautiful. The boy could appreciate the beauty

as well as the utility of the soil. It was so pleasing to the eye that

he wished with all his heart it had been his own land he had surveyed.

“And I'll not be a tenant farmer all my life, nor a farm-foreman, as

father was,” determined the boy. “I'll get ahead. If I work for the

benefit of other people for a few years, surely I'll win the chance in

time to at last work for myself.”

In the midst of his ruminations a sound broke upon his ear--a jarring

note in the peaceful murmur of the woodland life. It was the thud of a

horse's hoofs.

Not the sedate tunk-tunk of iron-shod feet on the damp earth, but

an erratic and rapid pounding of hoof-beats which came on with such

startling swiftness that Hiram sat up instantly, and craned his neck to

see up the road.

“That horse is running away!” gasped the young farmer, and he swung

himself out upon the lowest branch of the leaning tree which overhung

the carttrack, the better to see along the highway.

CHAPTER XI. A GIRL RIDES INTO THE TALE

There was no bend in the highway for some distance, but the overhanging

trees masked the track completely, save for a few hundred yards. The

horse, whether driven or running at large, was plainly spurred by

fright.

Into the peacefulness of this place its hoof-beats were bringing the

element of peril.

Lying prostrate on the sloping trunk, Hiram could see much farther up

the road. The outstretched head and lathered breast of a tall bay horse

leaped into view, and like a picture in a kinetoscope, growing larger

and more vivid second by second, the maddened animal came down the road.

Hiram could see that the beast was not riderless, but it was a moment

or two--a long-drawn, anxious space of heart-beaten seconds--ere he

realized what manner of rider it was who clung so desperately to the

masterless creature.

“It's a girl--a little girl!” gasped Hiram.

She was only a speck of color, with white, drawn face, on the back of

the racing horse.

Every plunge of the oncoming animal shook the little figure as though

it must fall from the saddle. But Hiram could see that she hung with

phenomenal pluck to the broken bridle and to the single horn of her

side-saddle.

If the horse fell, or if she were shaken free, she would be flung to

instant death, or be fearfully bruised under the pounding hoofs of the

big horse.

The young farmer's appreciation of the peril was instant; unused as he

was to meeting such emergency, there was neither panic nor hesitancy in

his actions.

He writhed farther out upon the limb of the leaning oak until he was

direct above the road. The big bay naturally kept to the middle, for

there was no obstruction in its path.

To have dropped to the highway would have put Hiram to instant

disadvantage; for before he could have recovered himself after the drop

the horse would have been upon him.

Now, swinging with both legs wrapped around the tough limb, and his left

hand gripping a smaller branch, but with his back to the plunging brute,

the youth glanced under his right armpit to judge the distance and the

on-rush of the horse and its helpless rider.

He knew she saw him. Swift as was the steed's approach, Hiram had seen

the change come into the expression of the girl's face.

“Clear your foot of the stirrup!” he shouted, hoping the girl would

understand.

With a confusing thunder of hoofbeats the bay came on--was beneath

him--had passed!

Hiram's right arm shot out, curved slightly, and as his fingers gripped

her sleeve, the girl let go. She was whisked out of the saddle and the

horse swept on without her.

The strain of the girl's slight weight upon his arm lasted but a moment,

for Hiram let go with his feet, swung down, and dropped.

They alighted in the roadway with so slight a jar that he scarcely

staggered, but set the girl down gently, and for the passing of a breath

her body swayed against him, seeking support.

Then she sprang a little away, and they stood looking at each

other--Hiram panting and flushed, the girl with wide-open eyes out of

which the terror had not yet faded, and cheeks still colorless.

So they stood, for fully half a minute, speechless, while the thunder of

the bay's hoofs passed further and further away and finally was lost in

the distance.

And it wasn't excitement that kept the boy dumb; for that was all over,

and he had been as cool as need be through the incident. But it

was unbounded amazement that made him stare so at the slight girl

confronting him.

He had seen her brilliant, dark little face before. Only once--but that

one occasion had served to photograph her features on his memory.

For the second time he had been of service to her; but he knew

instantly--and the fact did not puzzle him--that she did not recognize

him.

It had been so dark in the unlighted side street back in Crawberry the

evening of their first meeting that Hiram believed (and was glad) that

neither she nor her father would recognize him as the boy who had kept

their carriage from going into the open ditch.

And he had played rescuer again--and in a much more heroic manner.

This was the daughter of the man whom he had thought to be a prosperous

farmer, and whose card Hiram had lost.

He had hoped the gentleman might have a job for him; but now Hiram was

not looking for a job. He had given himself heartily to the project of

making the old Atterson farm pay; nor was he the sort of fellow to show

fickleness in such a project.

Before either Hiram or the girl broke the silence--before that silence

could become awkward, indeed--there started into hearing the ring of

rapid hoofbeats again. But it was not the runaway returning.

The mate of the latter appeared, and he came jogging along the road,

very much in hand, the rider seemingly quite unflurried.

This was a big, ungainly, beak-nosed boy, whose sleeves were much too

short, and trousers-legs likewise, to hide Nature's abundant gift to him

in the matter of bone and knuckle. He was freckled and wore a grin that

was not even sheepish.

Somehow, this stolidity and inappreciation of the peril the girl had so

recently escaped, made Hiram feel sudden indignation.

But the girl herself took the lout to task--before Hiram could say a

word.

“I told you that horse could not bear the whip, Peter!” she exclaimed,

with wrathful gaze. “How dared you strike him?”

“Aw--I only touched him up a bit,” drawled the youth. “You said you

could ride anything, didn't you?” and his grin grew wider. “But I see ye

had to get off.”

Here Hiram could stand it no longer, and he blurted out:

“She might have been killed! I believe that horse is running yet----”

“Well, why didn't you stop it?” demanded the other youth, “impudently.

You had a chance.”

“He saved me,” cried the girl, looking at Hiram now with shining eyes.

“I don't know how to thank him.”

“He might have stopped the horse while he was about it,” growled the

fellow, picking up his own reins again. “Now I'll have to ride after

it.”

“You'd better,” said the little lady, sharply. “If father knew that

horse had run away with me he would be dreadfully put out. You hurry

after him, Peter.”

The lout never said a word in reply, but his horse carried him swiftly

out of sight in the wake of the runaway. Then the girl turned again to

Hiram and the young farmer knew that he was being keenly examined by her

bright black eyes.

“I am very sure father will not keep him,” declared the girl, looking at

Hiram thoughtfully. “He is too careless--and I don't like him, anyway.

Do you live around here?”

“I expect to,” replied Hiram, smiling. “I have just come. I am going to

stay at this next house, along the road.”

“Oh! where the old gentleman died last week?”

“Yes. Mrs. Atterson was left the place by her uncle, and I am going to

run it for her.”

“Oh, dear! then you've got a place to work?” queried the little lady,

with plain disappointment in her tone. “I am sure father would like to

have you instead of Peter.”

But Hiram shook his head slowly, though still smiling,

“I'm obliged to you,” he said; “but I have agreed to stop with Mrs.

Atterson for a time.”

“I want father to meet you just the same,” she declared.

She had a way about her that impressed Hiram with the idea that she

seldom failed in getting what she wanted. If she was not a spoiled

child, she certainly was a very much indulged one.

But she was pretty! Dark, petite, with a brilliant smile, flashing

eyes, and a riot of blue-black curls, she was verily the daintiest and

prettiest little creature the young farmer had ever seen.

“I am Lettie Bronson,” she said, frankly. “I live down the road toward

Scoville. We have only just come here.”

“I know where you live,” said Hiram, smiling and nodding.

“You must come and see us. I want you to know father. He's the very

nicest man there is, I think.”

“He came all the way East here so as to live near my school--I go to the

St. Beris school in Scoville. It's awfully nice, and the girls are very

fashionable; but I'd be too lonely to live if daddy wasn't right near me

all the time.

“What is your name?” she asked suddenly.

Hiram told her.

“Why! that's a regular farmer's name, isn't it--Hiram?” and she

laughed--a clear and sweet sound, that made an inquisitive squirrel that

had been watching them scamper away to his hollow, chattering.

“I don't know about that,” returned the young farmer, shaking his

head and smiling. “I ought by good rights to be 'a worker in brass',

according to the Bible. That was the trade of Hiram, of the tribe of

Naphtali, who came out of Tyre to make all the brass work for Solomon's

temple.”

“Oh! and there was a King Hiram, of Tyre, too, wasn't there,” cried

Lettie, laughing. “You might be a king, you know.”

“That seems to be an unprofitable trade now-a-days,” returned the young

fellow, shaking his head. “I think I will be the namesake of Hiram, the

brass-smith, for it is said of him that he was 'filled with wisdom and

understanding' and that is what I want to be if I am going to run Mrs.

Atterson's farm and make it pay.”

“You're a funny boy,” said the girl, eyeing him furiously.

“You're--you're not at all like Pete--or these other boys about

Scoville.”

“And that Pete Dickerson isn't any good at all! I shall tell daddy all

about how he touched up that horse and made him run. Here he comes now!”

They had been walking steadily along the road toward the Atterson house,

and in the direction the runaway had taken. Pete Dickerson appeared,

riding one of the bays and leading the one that had been frightened.

The latter was all of a lather, was blowing hard, and before the horses

reached them, Hiram saw that the runaway was in bad shape.

“Hold on!” he cried to the lout. “Breathe that horse a while. Let him

stand. He ought to be rubbed down, too. Don't you see the shape he is

in?”

“Aw, what's eatin' you?” demanded Pete, eyeing the speaker with much

disfavor.

The horse, when he stopped, was trembling all over. His nostrils were

dilated and as red as blood, and strings of foam were dripping from his

bit.

“Don't let him stand there in the shade,” spoke Hiram, more “mildly.

He'll take a chill. Here! let me have him.”

He approached the still frightened horse, and Pete jerked the

bridle-rein. The horse started back and snorted.

“Stand 'round there, ye 'tarnal nuisance!” exclaimed Pete.

But Hiram caught the bridle and snatched it from the other fellow's

hand.

“Just let me manage him a minute,” said Hiram, leading the horse into

the sunshine.

He patted him, and soothed him, and the horse ceased trembling and his

ears pricked up. Hiram, still keeping the reins in his hand, loosened

the cinches and eased the saddle so that the animal could breathe

better.

There were bunches of dried sage-grass growing by the roadside, and the

young farmer tore off a couple of these bunches and used them to wipe

down the horse's legs. Pretty soon the creature forgot his fright and

looked like a normal horse again.

“If he was mine I'd give him whip a-plenty--till he learned better,”

drawled Pete Dickerson, finally.

“Don't you ever dare touch him with the whip again!” cried the girl,

stamping her foot. “He will not stand it. You were told----”

“Aw, well,” said the fellow, “'I didn't think he was going to cut up as

bad as that. These Western horses ain't more'n half broke, anyway.”

“I think he is perfectly safe for you to ride now, Miss Bronson,” said

Hiram, quietly. “I'll give you a hand up. But walk him home, please.”

He had tightened the cinches again. Lettie put her tiny booted foot in

his hand (she wore a very pretty dark green habit) and with perfect ease

the young farmer lifted her into the saddle.

“Good-bye--and thank you again!” she said, softly, giving him her free

hand just as the horse started.

“Say! you're the fellow who's going to live at Atterson's place?”

observed Pete. “I'll see you later,” and he waved his hand airily as he

rode off.

“So that's Pete Dickerson, is it?” ruminated Hiram, as he watched the

horses out of sight. “Well, if his father, Sam, is anything like him, we

certainly have got a sweet pair of neighbors!”

CHAPTER XII. SOMETHING ABOUT A PASTURE FENCE

That afternoon Hiram hitched up the old horse and drove into town.

He went to see the lawyer who had transacted Uncle Jeptha Atterson's

small business in the old man's lifetime, and had made his will--Mr.

Strickland. Hiram judged that this gentleman would know as much about

the Atterson place as anybody.

“No--Mr. Atterson never said anything to me about giving a neighbor

water-rights,” the lawyer said. “Indeed, Mr. Atterson was not a man

likely to give anything away--until he had got through with it himself.

“Dickerson once tried to buy a right at that corner of the Atterson

pasture; but he and the old gentleman couldn't come to terms.

“Dickerson has no water on his place, saving his well and his rights on

the river. It makes it bad for him, I suppose; but I do not advise Mrs.

Atterson to let that fence stand. Give that sort of a man an inch and

he'll take a mile.”

“But what shall I do?”

“That's professional advice, young man,” returned the lawyer, “smiling.

But I will give it to you without charge.

“Merely go and pull the new posts up and replace them on the line. If

Dickerson interferes with you, come to me and we'll have him bound over

before the Justice of the Peace.

“You represent Mrs. Atterson and are within her rights. That's the best

I can tell you.”

Now, Hiram was not desirous of starting any trouble--legal or

otherwise--with a neighbor; but neither did he wish to see anybody take

advantage of his old boarding mistress. He knew that, beside farming

for her, he would probably have to defend her from many petty annoyances

like the present case.

So he bought the wire he needed for repairs, a few other things that

were necessary, and drove back to the farm, determined to go right ahead

and await the consequences.

Among his purchases was an axe. In the workshop on the farm was a fairly

good grindstone; only the treadle was broken and Hiram had to repair

this before he could make much headway in grinding the axe. Henry

Pollock lived too far away to be called upon in such a small emergency.

Being obliged to work alone sharpens one's wits. The young farmer had to

resort to shifts and expedients on every hand, as he went along.

The day before, while wandering in the wood, he had marked several white

oaks of the right size for posts. He would have preferred cedars, of

course; but those trees were scarce on the Atterson tract--and they

might be needed for some more important job later on.

When he came up to the house at noon to feed the stock and make his own

frugal meal in the farm house kitchen, the posts were cut. After dinner

he harnessed the horse to the farm wagon, and went down for the posts,

taking the rolls of wire along to drop beside the fence.

The horse was a steady, willing creature, and seemed to have no tricks.

He did not drive very well on the road, of course; but that wasn't what

they needed a horse for.

Driving was a secondary matter.

Hiram loaded his posts and hauled them to the pasture, driving inside

the fence line and dropping a post wherever one had rotted out.

Yet posts that had rotted at the ground were not so easy to draw out, as

the young farmer very well knew, and he set his wits to work to make the

removal of the old posts easy of accomplishment.

He found an old, but strong, carpenter's horse in the shed, to act as

a fulcrum, and a seasoned bar of hickory as a lever. There was never

an old farm yet that didn't have a useful heap of junk, and Hiram had

already scratched over Uncle Jeptha's collection of many years' standng.

He found what he sought in a wrought iron band some half inch in

thickness with a heavy hook attached to it by a single strong link.

He fitted this band upon the larger end of the hickory bar, wedging it

tightly into place.

A short length of trace chain completed his simple post-puller. And he

could easily carry the outfit from place to place as it was needed.

When he found a weak or rotting post, he pulled the staples that held

the strands of wire to it and and then set the trestle alongside the

post. Resting the lever on the trestle, he dropped the end link of the

chain on the hook, looped the chain around the post, and hooked on with

another link. Bearing down on the lever brought the post out of the

ground every time.

With a long-handled spade Hiram cleaned out the old holes, or enlarged

them, and set his new posts, one after the other. He left the wires to

be tightened and stapled later.

It was not until the next afternoon that he worked down as far as the

water-hole. Meanwhile he had seen nothing of the neighbors and neither

knew, nor cared, whether they were watching him or not.

But it was evident that the Dickersons had kept tabs on the young

farmer's progress, for, he had no more than pulled the posts out of

the water-hole and started to reset them on the proper line, than the

long-legged Pete Dickerson appeared.

“Hey, you!” shouted Pete. “What are you monkeying with that line fence

for?”

“Because I won't have time to fix it later,” responded Hiram, calmly.

“Fresh Ike, ain't yer?” demanded young Dickerson.

He was half a head taller than Hiram, and plainly felt himself safe in

adopting bullying tactics.

“You put them posts back where you found 'em and string the wires again

in a hurry--or I'll make yer.”

“This is Mrs. Atterson's fence,” said Hiram, quietly. “I have made

inquiries about the line, and I know where it belongs.”

“No part of this water-hole belongs on your side of the fence,

Dickerson, and as long as I represent Mrs. Atterson it's not going to be

grabbed.”

“Say! the old man gave my father the right to a part of this hole long

ago.”

“Show your legal paper to that effect,” promptly suggested Hiram. “Then

we will let it stand until the lawyers decide the matter.”

Pete was silent for a minute; meanwhile Hiram continued to dig his hole,

and finally set the first post into place.

“I tell you to take that post out o' there, Mister,” exclaimed Pete,

suddenly approaching the other. “I don't like you, anyway. You helped

git me turned off up there to Bronson's yesterday. If you wouldn't have

put your fresh mouth in about the horse that gal wouldn't have knowed

so much to tell her father. Now you stop foolin' with this fence or I'll

lick you.”

Hiram Strong's disposition was far from being quarrelsome. He only

laughed at first and said:

“Why, that won't do you any good in the end, Peter. Thrashing me won't

give you and your father the right to usurp rights at this water-hole.

“There was very good reason, as I can see, for old Mr. Atterson refusing

to let you water your stock here. In time of drouth the branch probably

furnished no more water than his own cattle needed. And it will be the

same with my employer.”

“You'd better have less talk about it, and set back them posts,”

declared Pete, decidedly, laying off his coat and pulling up his shirt

sleeves.

“I hope you won't try anything foolish, Peter,” said Hiram, resting on

his shovel handle.

“Huh!” grunted Pete, eyeing him sideways as might an evil-disposed dog.

“We're not well matched,” observed Hiram, quietly, “and whether you

thrashed me, or I thrashed you, nothing would be proved by it in regard

to the line fence.”

“I'll show you what I can prove!” cried Pete, and rushed for him.

In a catch-as-catch-can wrestle Pete Dickerson might have been able

to overturn Hiram Strong. But the latter did not propose to give the

long-armed youth that advantage.

He dropped the spade, stepped nimbly aside, and as Pete lunged past

him the young farmer doubled his fist and struck his antagonist solidly

under the ear.

That was the only blow struck--that and the one when Pete struck the

ground. The bigger fellow rolled over, grunted, and gazed up at Hiram

with amazement struggling with the rage expressed in his features.

“I told you we were not well matched, Peter,” spoke Hiram, calmly. “Why

fight about it? You have no right on your side, and I do not propose to

see Mrs. Atterson robbed of this water privilege.”

Pete climbed to his feet slowly, and picked up his coat. He felt of his

neck carefully and then looked at his hand, with the idea evidently that

such a heavy blow must have brought blood. But of course there was none.

“I'll tell my dad--that's what I'll do,” ejaculated the bully, at

length, and he started immediately across the field, his long legs

working like a pair of tongs in his haste to get over the ground.

But Hiram completed the setting of the posts at the water-hole without

hearing further from any member of the Dickerson family.

CHAPTER XIII. THE UPROOTING

These early Spring days were busy ones for Hiram Strong. The mornings

were frosty and he could not get to his fencing work until midforenoon.

But there were plenty of other tasks ready to his hand.

There were two south windows in the farmhouse kitchen. He tried to keep

some fire in the stove there day and night, sleeping as he did in Uncle

Jeptha's old bedroom nearby.

Before these two windows he erected wide shelves and on these he set

shallow boxes of rich earth which he had prepared under the cart shed.

There was no frost under there, the earth was dry and the hens had

scratched in it during the winter, so Hiram got all the well-sifted

earth he needed for his seed boxes.

He used a very little commercial fertilizer in each box, and planted

some of the seeds he had bought in Crawberry at an agricultural

warehouse on Main Street.

Mrs. Atterson had expressed the hope that he would put in a variety of

vegetables for their own use, and Hiram had followed her wishes. When

the earth in the boxes had warmed up for several days he put in the

long-germinating seeds, like tomato, onions, the salads, leek, celery,

pepper, eggplant, and some beet seed to transplant for the early garden.

It was too early yet to put in cabbage and cauliflower.

These boxes caught the sun for a good part of the day. In the afternoon

when the sun had gone, Hiram covered the boxes with old quilts and did

not uncover them again until the sun shone in the next morning. He had

decided to start his early plants in this way because he hadn't the time

at present to build frames outside.

During the early mornings and late afternoons, too, he began to make the

small repairs around the house and outbuildings. Hiram was handy with

tools; indeed, a true farmer should be a good mechanic as well. He must

often combine carpentry and wheelwrighting and work at the forge, with

his agricultural pursuits. Hiram was something better than a “cold-iron

blacksmith.”

When it came to stretching the wire of the pasture fence he had to

resort to his inventive powers. There are plenty of wire stretchers that

can be purchased; but they cost money.

The young farmer knew that Mrs. Atterson had no money to waste, and he

worked for her just as he would have worked for himself.

One man working alone cannot easily stretch wire and make a good job

of it without some mechanism to help him. Hiram's was simple and easily

made.

A twelve-inch section of perfectly round post, seven or eight inches

through, served as the drum around which to wind the wire, and two

twenty-penny nails driven into the side of the drum, close together,

were sufficient to prevent the wire from slipping.

To either end of the drum Hiram passed two lengths of Number 9 wire

through large screweyes, making a double loop into which the hook of a

light timber chain would easily catch. Into one end of the drum he drove

a headless spike, upon which the hand-crank of the grindstone fitted,

and was wedged tight.

In using this ingenious wire stretcher, he stapled his wire to post

number one, carried the length past post number two, looped the chain

around post number three, having the chain long enough so that he might

tauten the wire and hold the crankhandle steady with his knee or left

arm while he drove the holding staple in post number two. And so repeat,

ad infinitum.

After he had made this wire-stretcher the young fellow got along

famously upon his fencing and could soon turn his attention to other

matters, knowing that the cattle would be perfectly safe in the pasture

for the coming season.

The old posts he collected on the wagon and drew into the dooryard,

piling them beside the woodshed. There was not an overabundant supply

of firewood cut and Hiram realized that Mrs. Atterson would use

considerable in her kitchen stove before the next winter, even if she

did not run a sitting room fire for long this spring.

Using a bucksaw is not only a thankless job at any time, but it is no

saving of time or money. There was a good two-handed saw in the shed and

Hiram found a good rat-tail file. With the aid of a home-made saw-holder

and a monkey wrench he sharpened and set this saw and then got Henry

Pollock to help him for a day.

Henry wasn't afraid of work, and the two boys sawed and split the old

and well-seasoned posts, and some other wood, so that Hiram was enabled

to pile several tiers of stove-wood under the shed against the coming of

Mrs. Atterson to her farm.

“If the season wasn't so far advanced, I could cut a lot of wood, draw

it up, and hire a gasoline engine and saw to come on the place and saw

us enough to last a year. I'll do that next winter,” Hiram said.

“That's what we all ought to do,” agreed his friend.

Henry Pollock was an observing farmer's boy and through him Hiram gained

many pointers as to the way the farmers in that locality put in their

crops and cultivated them.

He learned, too, through Henry who was supposed to be the best farmer

in the neighborhood, who had special success with certain crops, and who

had raised the best seedcorn in the locality.

It was not particularly a trucking community; although, since Scoville

had begun to grow so fast and many city people had moved into that

pleasant town, the local demand for garden produce had increased.

“It used to be a saying here,” said Henry, “that a bushel of winter

turnips would supply all the needs of Scoville. But that ain't exactly

so now.

“The stores all want green stuff in season, and are beginning to pay

cash for truck instead of only offering to exchange groceries for the

stuff we raise. I guess if a man understood truck raising he could make

something in this market.”

Hiram decided that this was so, on looking over the marketing

possibilities of Scoville.

There was a canning factory which put up string beans, corn, and

tomatoes; but the prices per hundred-weight for these commodities did

not encourage Hiram to advise Mrs. Atterson to try and raise anything

for the canneries. A profit could not be made out of such crops on a

one-horse farm.

For instance, the neighboring farmers did not plant their tomato seeds

until it was pretty safe to do so in the open ground. The cannery did

not want the tomato pack to come on until late in August. By that time

the cream of the prices for garden-grown tomatoes had been skimmed by

the early truckers.

The same with sweet corn and green beans. The cannery demanded these

vegetables at so late a date that the market-price was generally low.

These facts Hiram bore in mind as he planned his season's work, and

especially the kitchen garden. This latter he planned to be about two

acres in extent--rather a large plot, but he proposed to set his rows

of almost every vegetable far enough apart to be worked with a horse

cultivator.

Some crops--for instance onions, carrots, and other “fine stuff”--must

be weeded by hand to an extent, and if the soil is rich enough rows

twelve or fifteen inches apart show better results.

Between such rows a wheelhoe can be used to good advantage, and that

was one tool--with a seed-sowing combination--that Hiram had told Mrs.

Atterson she must buy if he was to practically attend to the whole farm

for her. Hand-hoeing, in both field and garden crops, is antediluvian.

Thus, during this week and a half of preparation, Hiram made ready for

the uprooting of Mrs. Atterson from the boarding house in Crawberry to

the farm some distance out of Scoville.

The good lady had but one wagon load of goods to be transferred from

her old quarters to the new home. Many of the articles she brought were

heirlooms which she had stored in the boarding house cellar, or articles

associated with her happy married life, which had been shortened by her

husband's death when he was comparatively a young man.

These Mrs. Atterson saw piled on the wagon early on Saturday morning,

and she had insisted upon climbing upon the seat beside the driver

herself and riding with him all the way.

The boarders gathered on the steps to see her go. The two spinster

ladies had already taken possession, and had served breakfast to the

disgruntled members of Mother Atterson's family.

“You'll be back again,” prophesied Mr. Crackit, shaking the old lady by

the hand. “And when you do, just let me know. I'll come and board with

you.”

“I wouldn't have you in my house again, Fred Crackit, for two farms,”

declared the ex-boarding house keeper, with asperity.

“I hope you told these people about my hot water, Mrs. Atterson,”

croaked Mr. Peebles, from the step, where he stood muffled in a shawl

because of the raw morning air.

“If I didn't you can tell 'em yourself,” returned she, with

satisfaction.

And so it went--the good-byes of these unappreciative boarders selfish

to the last! Mother Atterson sighed--a long, happy, and satisfying

sigh--when the lumbering wagon turned the first corner.

“Thanks be!” she murmured. “I sha'n't care if they don't have a driblet

of gravy at supper tonight.”

Then she shook herself and stared straight ahead. On the very next

corner--she had insisted that none of the other people at the house

should observe their flitting--stood two figures, both forlorn.

Old Lem Camp, with a lean suit-case at his feet, and Sister with a

bulging carpetbag which she had brought with her months before from the

charity institution, and into which she had stuffed everything she owned

in the world.

Their faces brightened perceptibly when they beheld Mrs. Atterson

perched high beside the driver on the load of furniture and bedding. The

driver drew in his span of big horses and the wheels grated against the

curb.

“You climb right in behind, Mr. Camp,” said the good lady. “There's room

for you up under the canvas top--and I had him spread a mattress so't

you can take it easy all the way, if you like.

“Sister, you scramble up here and sit in betwixt me and this man. And do

look out--you're spillin' things out o' that bag like it was a Christmas

cornucopia. Come on, now! Toss it behind us, onto them other things.

There! we'll go on--and no more stops, I hope, till we reach the farm.”

But that couldn't be. It was a long drive, and the man was good to his

team. He rested them at the top of every hill, and sometimes at the

bottom. They had to stop two hours for dinner and to “breathe 'em,” as

the man said.

At that time Mother Atterson produced a goodsized market basket--her

familiar companion when she had hunted bargains in the city--and it was

filled with sandwiches, and pickles, and crackers, and cookies, and

a whole boiled fowl (fowl were cheaper and more satisfying than the

scrawny chickens then in market) and hard-boiled eggs, and cheese, with

numbers of other less important eatables tucked into corners of the

basket to “wedge” the larger packages of food.

The four picnicked in the sun, with the furniture wagon to break the

keen wind, passing around hot coffee in a can, from hand to hand, the

driver having built a campfire to heat the coffee beside the country

road.

But after that stop--for they were well into the country now--there was

no keeping Sister on the wagon-seat. She had learned to drop down and

mount again as lively as a cricket.

She tore along the edge of the road, with her hair flying, and her hat

hanging by its ribbons. She chased a rabbit, and squirrels, and picked

certain green branches, and managed to get her hands and the front of

her dress all “stuck up” with spruce gum in trying to get a piece big

enough to chew.

“Drat the young'un!” exclaimed Mother Atterson. “I can see plainly

I'd never ought to brought her, but should have sent her back to the

institution. She'll be as wild as Mr. March's hare--whoever he was--out

here in the country.”

But Old Lem Camp gave her no trouble. He effaced himself just as he had

at the boarding house supper table. He seldom spoke--never unless he was

spoken to; and he lay up under the roof of the furniture wagon, whether

asleep, or no, Mrs. Atterson could not tell.

“He's as odd as Dick's hat-band,” the ex-boarding house mistress

confided to the driver. “But, bless you! the easiest critter to get

along with--you never saw his beat. If I'd a house full of Lem Camps to

cook for, I'd think I was next door to heaven.”

It was dusk when they arrived in sight of the little house beside the

road in which Uncle Jeptha Atterson had lived out his long life. Hiram

had a good fire going in both the kitchen and sitting room, and the

lamplight flung through the windows made the place look cheerful indeed

to the travelers.

“My soul and body!” croaked the good lady, when she got down from the

wagon and Hiram caught her in his arms to save her from a fall. “I'm as

stiff as a poker--and that's a fact. But I'm glad to get here.”

Hiram's amazement when he saw Sister and Old Lem Camp was only expressed

in his look. He said nothing. The driver of the wagon backed it to the

porch step and then took out his team and, with Hiram's help, led them

to the stable, fed them, and bedded them down for the night. He was to

sleep in one of the spare beds and go back to town the following day.

Mother Atterson took off her best dress, slipped into a familiar old

gingham and bustled around the kitchen as naturally as though she had

been there all her life.

She fried ham and eggs, and made biscuit, and opened a couple of tins of

peaches she had brought, and finally set before them a repast satisfying

if not dainty, and seasoned with a cheerful spirit at least.

“I vum!” she exclaimed, sitting down for the first time in years “at the

first table.” “If this don't beat Crawberry and them boarders, I'm crazy

as a loon. Pour the coffee, Sister--and don't be stingy with the milk.

Milk's only five cents a quart here, and it's eight in town. But,

gracious, child! sugar don't cost no less.”

Old Lem Camp sat beside Hiram, as he had at the boarding-house table. He

had scarcely spoken since his arrival; but now, under cover of the talk

of Mother Atterson, the driver of the furniture van, and Sister, he

began one of his old-time monologues:

“Old, old--nothing to look forward to--then the prospect opens up--just

like light breaking through the clouds after a storm--let's see; I want

a piece of bread--bread's on Sister's side--I can reach it--hum! no

Crackit to-night--fool jokes--silly fellow--ah! the butter--Where's the

butterknife?--Sister's forgotten the butter-knife--no! here 'tis--That

woman's an angel--nothing less--an angel in a last season's bonnet and a

shabby gown--Hah! practical angels couldn't use wings--they'd be in the

way in the kitchen--ham and eggs--gravy--fit for gods to eat--and not to

worry again where next week's victuals are to come from!”

Hiram noted all the old mail said, and the last phrase enlightened him

immensely as to why Old Lem Camp was so “queer.” That was the trouble

on the old man's mind--the trouble that had stifled him, and made him

appear “half cracked” as the boarding-house jester and Peebles had said.

Lem Camp, too old to ever get another job in the city, had for five

years been worrying from day to day about his bare existence. And

evidently he saw that bogie of the superannuated disappearing in the

distance.

After the truck driver had gone to bed, and Camp himself, and Sister had

fallen asleep over the last of the dish-wiping, Mother Atterson confided

in Hiram, to a degree.

“Now, this gal can be made useful. She can help me in the house, and she

can help outside, too.

“She's a poor, unfortunate creature--I know and humbly is no name for

her looks! But mebbe we can send her to the school nearby, and she ought

to get some color in her face if she's out o' doors some--and some flesh

on her skinny body.

“I don't know as I could get along without Sister,” ruminated Mother

Atterson, shaking her head.

“And as for Lem Camp--bless you! he won't eat more'n a fly, and who else

would give him houseroom? Why, Hiram, I just had to bring him with me.

If I hadn't, I'd felt just as conscience-stricken as though I'd moved

and left a cat behind in an empty house!”

CHAPTER XIV. GETTING IN THE EARLY CROPS

Mother Atterson had breakfast the next morning by lamplight, because the

truckman wanted to make an early start.

Hiram had already begun early rising, however, for the farmer who does

not get up before the sun in the spring needs must do his chores at

night by lantern-light. The eight-hour law can never be a rule on the

farm.

But Sister was up, too, and out of the house, running as wild as a

rabbit. Hiram caught her in the barnyard trying to clamber on the cow's

back to ride her about the enclosure. Sister was afraid of nothing that

lived and walked, having all the courage of ignorance.

She found that she could not in safety clamber over the pig-lot fence

and catch one of the shoats. Old Mother Hog ran at her with open mouth

and Sister came back from that expedition with a torn frock and some new

experience.

“I never knew anything so fat could run,” she confided to Hiram. “Old

Missus Poundly, who lived on our block, and weighed three hundred

pounds, couldn't run, I bet!”

Mr. Camp was not disturbed by Mrs. Atterson, but was allowed to sleep as

long as he liked, while she kept a little breakfast hot for him and the

coffeepot on the back of the stove.

The old lady became interested at once in all Hiram had done toward

beginning the spring work. She learned about the seed in the window

boxes (some of them were already breaking the soil) about watering them

and covering them properly and immediately took those duties off Hiram's

hands.

“If Sister an' me can't do the light chores around this place and leave

you to 'tend to the bigger things, then we ain't no good and had better

go back to the boarding house,” she announced.

“Oh, Mis' Atterson! You wouldn't go back to town, would you?” pleaded

Sister. “Why, there's real hens--and a cow that will give milk bimeby,

Hi says--and a horse that wiggles his ears and talks right out loud when

he's hungry, for I heard him--and pigs that squeal and run, an' they're

jest as fat as butter----”

“Well, to stay here we've all got to work, Sister,” declared her

mistress. “So get at them dishes now and be quick about it.

There's forty times more chores to do here than there was back in

Crawberry--But, thanks be! there ain't no gravy to worry about.”

“And there ain't no boarders to make fun of me,” said Sister,

thoughtfully. Then, she announced, after some rumination: “I like pigs

better than I do boarders Mis' Atterson.”

“Well, I should think you would!” exclaimed that lady, tartly. “Pigs has

got some sense.”

Hiram laughed at this. “You'll find the pigs demanding gravy, just the

same--and very urgent about it they are, too,” he told them.

But he was glad to give the small chores over into their hands, and went

to work immediately to prepare for putting in the early crops.

He had already cleared the rubbish off the piece of ground selected

for the garden, and had burned it. He hauled out stable manure from

the barnyard and gave an acre and a half of this piece of land a good

dressing.

The other half-acre was for early potatoes, and he wished to put the

manure in the furrow for them, so did not top dress that strip of land.

The frost was pretty well out of the ground by now; but even if some

remained, plowing this high, well-drained piece would do no harm.

Beside, Hiram was eager to get in early crops.

It was a still, hazy morning when he geared the old horse to the plow

and headed him into the garden piece. He had determined to plow the

entire plot at once, and instead of plowing “around and around” had

paced off his lands and started in the middle, plowing “gee” instead of

“haw”.

This system is a bit more particular, and hard for the careless plowman;

but it overcomes that unsightly “dead-furrow” in the middle of a field

and brings the “finishing-furrow” on the edge. This insures better

surface drainage and is a more scientific method of tillage.

The plow was rusty and the point was not in the very best condition; but

after the first few rounds the share was cleaned off, and it began to

slip through the moist earth and roll it over in a long, brown ribbon

behind him.

Hiram Strong clung to the plow handles, a rope-rein in each hand, and

watched the plow and the horse and the land ahead with an eye as keen as

that of a river-pilot.

As the strip of turned earth grew wider and longer Sister ran out to see

him work. She watched the plow turn the mulch into the furrow and lay

the brown, greasy mold upon it, with wide-open eyes.

“Why!” cried she, “wouldn't it be nice if we could go right along with

a plow and bury our past like that--cover everything mean and nasty

up, and forget it! That institution they put me in--and the old woman

I lived with before that, who drank so much gin and beat me--and the

boarders--and that boy who used to pull my braids whenever he met me--My

that would be fine!”

“I reckon that is what Life does do for us,” returned Hiram,

thoughtfully, stopping at the end of the furrow to mop his brow and let

the old horse breathe. “Yes, sir! Life plows all the experience under,

and it ought to enrich our future existence, just as this stuff I'm

plowing under here will decay and enrich the soil.”

“But the plow don't turn it quite under in spots,” said Sister, with

a sigh. “Leastways, I can't help remembering the bad things once in a

while.”

There were certain other individuals who found out very soon that Hiram

was plowing, too. Those were the hens. There were not more than fifteen

or twenty of the scrubby creatures, and they began to follow the plow

and pick up grubs and worms.

“I tell you one thing that I've got to do before we put in much,” Hiram

told the ex-boarding house mistress at noon.

“What's that, Hi? Don't go very deep down into my pocket, for it won't

stand it. After paying my bills, and paying for moving out here, I ain't

got much money left--and that's a fact!”

“It won't cost much, but we've got to have a yard for the hens. Hens and

a garden will never mix successfully. Unless you enclose them you might

as well have no garden in that spot where I'm plowing.”

“There warn't but five eggs to-day,” said Mrs. Atterson. “Mebbe we'd

better chop the heads off 'em, one after the other, and eat 'em.”

“They'll lay better as it grows warmer. That henhouse must be fixed

before next winter. It's too draughty,” said Hi. “And then, hens can't

lay well--especially through the winter--if they haven't the proper kind

of food.”

“But three or four of the dratted things want to stay on the nest all

the time,” complained the old lady.

“If I was you, Mrs. Atterson,” Hiram said, soberly, “I'd spend five

dollars for a hundred eggs of well-bred stock.

“I'd set these hens as fast as they get broody, and raise a decent flock

of biddies for next year. Scrub hens are just as bad as scrub cows. The

scrubs will eat quite as much as full-bloods, yet the returns from the

scrubs are much less.”

“I declare!” exclaimed Mrs. Atterson, “a hen's always been just a hen

to me--one's the same as another, exceptin' the feathers on some is

prettier.”

“To-night I'll show you some breeders' catalogs and you can think the

matter over as to what kind of a fowl you want,” said the young farmer.

He went back to his job after dinner and kept steadily at work until

three o'clock before there came a break. Then he saw a carriage drive

into the yard, and a few moments later a man In a long gray coat came

striding across the lot toward him.

Hiram knew the gentleman at once--it was Mr. Bronson, the father of

the girl he had saved from the runaway. To tell the truth, the boy

had rather wondered about his non-appearance during the days that

had elapsed. But now he came with hand held out, and his first words

explained the seeming omission:

“I've been away for more than a week, my boy, or I should have seen you

before. You're Hiram Strong, aren't you--the boy my little girl has been

talking so much about?”

“I don't know how much Miss Lettie has been talking about me,” laughed

Hiram. “Full and plenty, I expect.”

“And small blame to her,” declared Mr. Bronson. “I won't waste time

telling you how grateful I am. I had just time to turn that boy of

Dickerson's off before I was called away. Now, my lad, I want you to

come and work for me.”

“Why, much as I might like to, sir, I couldn't do that,” said Hiram.

“Now, now! we'll fix it somehow. Lettie has set her heart on having you

around the place.

“You're the second young man I've been after whom I was sure would suit

me, since we moved on to the old Fleigler place. The first fellow I

can't find; but don't tell me that I am going to be disappointed in you,

too.”

“Mr. Bronson,” said Hiram, gravely, “I'm sorry to say 'No.' A little

while ago I'd have been delighted to take up with any fair offer you

might have made me. But I have agreed with Mrs. Atterson to run her

place for two seasons.”

“Two years!” exclaimed Mr. Bronson.

“Yes, sir. Practically. I must put her on her feet and make the old farm

show a profit.”

“You're pretty young to take such responsibility upon your shoulders,

are you not?” queried the gentleman, eyeing him curiously.

“I'm seventeen. I began to work with my father as soon as I could lift

a hoe. I love farm work. And I've passed my word to stick to Mrs.

Atterson.”

“That's the old lady up to the house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But she wouldn't hold you to your bargain if she saw you could better

yourself, would she?”

“She would not have to,” Hiram said, firmly, and he began to feel a

little disappointed in his caller. “A bargain's a bargain--there's no

backing out of it.”

“But suppose I should make it worth her while to give you up?” pursued

Mr. Bronson. “I'll sound her a bit, eh? I tell you that Lettie has set

her heart on having you, as we cannot find another chap whom we were

looking for.”

Now, Hiram knew that this referred to him; but he said nothing. Besides,

he did not feel too greatly pleased that the strongest reason for Mr.

Bronson's wishing to hire him was his little daughter's demand. It was

just a fancy of Miss Lettie's. And another day, she might have the fancy

to turn him off.

“No, sir,” spoke Hiram, more firmly. “It is useless. I am obliged to

you; but I must stick by Mrs. Atterson.”

“Well, my lad,” said the Westerner, putting out his hand again. “I am

glad to see you know how to keep a promise, even if it isn't to your

advantage. And I am grateful to you for turning that trick for my little

girl the other day.”

“I hope you'll come over and see us--and I shall watch your work here.

Most of these fellows around here are pretty slovenly farmers in my

estimation; I hope you will do better than the average.”

He went back across the field and Hiram returned to his plowing. The

young farmer saw the bay horses driven slowly out of the yard and along

the road.

He saw the flutter of a scarf from the carriage and knew that Lettie

Bronson was with her father; but she did not look out at him as he

toiled behind the old horse in the furrow.

However, there was no feeling of disappointment in Hiram Strong's

mind--and this fact somewhat surprised him. He had been so attracted by

the girl, and had wished in the beginning so much to be engaged by Mr.

Bronson, that he had considered it a mighty disappointment when he had

lost the Westerner's card.

However, his apathy in the matter was easily explained. He had taken

hold of the work on the Atterson place. His plans were growing in his

mind for the campaign before him. His interest was fastened upon the

contract he had made with the old lady.

His hand was, literally now, “to the plow”--and he was not looking back.

He finished the piece that day, and likewise drew out some lime that he

had bought at Scoville and spread it broadcast upon all the garden patch

save that in which he intended to put potatoes.

Although it is an exploded doctrine that the application of lime to

potato ground causes scab, it is a fact that it will aid in spreading

the disease. Hiram was sure enough--because of the sheep-sorrel on the

piece--that it all needed sweetening, but he decided against the lime at

this time.

As soon as Hiram had drag-harrowed the piece he laid off two rows down

the far end, as being less tempting to the straying hens, and planted

early peas--the round-seeded variety, hardier than the wrinkled kinds.

These pea-rows were thirty inches apart, and he dropped the peas by hand

and planted them very thickly.

It doesn't pay to be niggardly with seed in putting in early peas, at

any rate--the thicker they come up the better, and in these low bush

varieties the thickly growing vines help support each other.

This garden piece--almost two acres--was oblong in shape. An acre is

just about seventy paces square. Hiram's garden was seventy by a hundred

and forty paces, or thereabout.

Therefore, the young farmer had two seventy-yard rows of peas, or over

four hundred feet of drill. He planted two quarts of peas at a cost of

seventy cents.

With ordinary fortune the crop should be much more than sufficient for

the needs of the house while the peas were in a green state, for being a

quick growing vegetable, they are soon past.

Hiram, however, proposed putting in a surplus of almost everything he

planted in this big garden--especially of the early vegetables--for he

believed that there would be a market for them in Scoville.

The ground was very cold yet, and snow flurries swept over the field

every few days; but the peas were under cover and were off his mind;

Hiram knew they would be ready to pop up above the surface just as soon

as the warm weather came in earnest, and peas do not easily rot in the

ground.

In two weeks, or when the weather was settled, he proposed planting

other kinds of peas alongside these first two rows, so as to have a

succession up to mid-summer.

Next the young farmer laid off his furrows for early potatoes. He had

bought a sack of an extra-early variety, yet a potato that, if left

in the ground the full length of the season, would make a good winter

variety--a “long keeper.”

His potato rows he planned to have three feet apart, and he plowed the

furrows twice, so as to have them clean and deep.

Henry Pollock happened to come by while he was doing this, and stopped

to talk and watch Hiram. To tell the truth, Henry and his folks were

more than a little interested in what the young farmer would do with the

Atterson place.

Like other neighbors they doubted if the stranger knew as much about the

practical work of farming as he claimed to know. “That feller from

the city,” the neighbors called Hiram behind his back, and that is an

expression that completely condemns a man in the mind of the average

countryman.

“What yer bein' so particular with them furrers for, Hiram?” asked

Henry.

“If a job's worth doing at all, it's worth doing well, isn't it?”

laughed the young farmer.

“We spread our manure broadcast--when we use any at all--for potatoes,”

said Henry, slowly. “Dad says if manure comes in contact with potatoes,

they are apt to rot.”

“That seems to be a general opinion,” replied Hiram. “And it may be so

under certain conditions. For that reason I am going to make sure that

not much of this fertilizer comes in direct contact with my seed.”

“How'll you do that?” “I'll show you,” said Hiram.

Having run out his rows and covered the bottom of each furrow several

inches deep with the manure, he ran his plow down one side of each

furrow and turned the soil back upon the fertilizer, covering it and

leaving a well pulverized seed bed for the potatoes to lie in.

“Well,” said Henry, “that's a good wrinkle, too.”

Hiram had purchased some formalin, mixed it with water according to the

Government expert's instructions, and from time to time soaked his seed

potatoes two hours in the antiseptic bath. In the evening he brought

them into the kitchen and they all--even Old Lem Camp--cut up the

potatoes, leaving two or three good eyes in each piece.

“I'd ruther do this than peel 'em for the boarders,” remarked Sister,

looking at her deeply-stained fingers reflectively. “And then, nobody

won't say nothin' about my hands to me when I'm passin' dishes at the

table.”

The following day she helped Hiram drop the seed, and by night he had

covered them by running his plow down the other side of the row and

then smoothed the potato plat with a home-made “board” in lieu of a

land-roller.

It was the twentieth of March, and not a farmer in the locality had yet

put in either potatoes, or peas. Some had not as yet plowed for early

potatoes, and Henry Pollock warned Hiram that he was “rushing the

season.”

“That may be,” declared the young farmer to Mrs. Atterson. “But I

believe the risk is worth taking. If we do get 'em good, we'll get 'em

early and skim the cream of the local market. Now, you see!”

CHAPTER XV. TROUBLE BREWS

“Old Lem Camp,” as he had been called for so many years that there

seemed no disrespect in the title, was waking up. Not many mornings was

he a lie-abed. And the lines in his forehead seemed to be smoothing out,

and his eyes had lost something of their dullness.

It was true that, at first, he wandered about the farmstead muttering

to himself in his old way--an endless monologue which was a jumble of

comment, gratitude, and the brief memories of other days. It took some

time to adjust his poor mind to the fact that he had no longer to

fear that Poverty which had stalked ever before him like a threatening

spirit.

Gratitude spurred him to the use of his hands. He was not a broken

man--not bodily. Many light tasks soon fell to his share, and Mrs.

Atterson told Hiram and Sister to let him do what he would. To busy

himself would be the best thing in the world for the old fellow.

“That's what's been the matter with Mr. Camp for years,” she declared,

with conviction. “Because he passed the sixty-year mark, and it was

against the practise of the paper company to keep employees on the

payroll over that age, they turned Lem Camp off.

“Ridiculous! He was just as well able to do the tasks that he had

learned to do mechanically as he had been any time for the previous

twenty years. He had worked in that office forty years, and more, you

understand.

“That's the worst thing about a corporation of that kind--it has no

thought beyond its 'rules.' Old Mr. Bundy remembered Lem--that's all.

If he hadn't so much stock in the concern they'd turn him off, too. I

expect he knows it and that's what softened his heart to Old Lem.

“Now, let Lem take hold of whatever he can do, and git interested in

it,” declared the practical Mrs. Atterson, “and he'll show you that

there's work left in him yet. Yes-sir-ree-sir! And if he'll work in the

open air, all the better for him.”

There was plenty for everybody to do, and Hiram would not say the old

man nay. The seed boxes needed a good deal of attention, for they were

to be lifted out into the air on warm days, and placed in the sun. And

Old Lem could do this--and stir the soil in them, and pull out the grass

and other weeds that started.

Hiram had planted early cabbage and cauliflower and egg-plant in other

boxes, and the beets were almost big enough to transplant to the open

ground. Beets are hardy and although hair-roots are apt to form on

transplanted garden beets, the transplanting aids the growth in other

ways and Hiram expected to have table-beets very early.

In the garden itself he had already run out two rows of later beets, the

width of the plot. Bunched beets will sell for a fair price the whole

season through.

Hiram was giving his whole heart and soul to the work--he was wrapped up

in the effort to make the farm pay. And for good reason.

It was “up to him” to not alone turn a profit for his employer, and

himself; but he desired--oh, how strongly!--to show the city folk who

had sneered at him that he could be a success in the right environment.

Besides, and in addition, Hiram Strong was ambitious--very ambitious

indeed for a youth of his age. He wanted to own a farm of his own in

time--and it was no “one-horse farm” he aimed at.

No, indeed! Hiram had read of the scientific farming of the Middle West,

and the enormous tracts in the Northwest devoted to grain and other

staple crops, where the work was done for the most part by machinery.

He longed to see all this--and to take part in it. He desired the big

things in farming, nor would he ever be content to remain a helper.

“I'm going to be my own boss, some day--and I'm going to boss other men.

I'll show these fellows around here that I know what I want, and when I

get it I'll handle it right!” Hiram soliloquized.

“It's up to me to save every cent I can. Henry thinks I'm niggardly,

I expect, because I wouldn't go to town Saturday night with him. But I

haven't any money to waste.

“The hundred I'm to get next Christmas from Mrs. Atterson I don't wish

to draw on at all. I'll get along with such old clothes as I've got.”

Hiram was not naturally a miser; he frequently bought some little thing

for Sister when he went to town--a hair-ribbon, or the like, which he

knew would please the girl; but for himself he was determined to be

saving.

At the end of his contract with Mrs. Atterson he would have two hundred

dollars anyway. But that was not the end and aim of Hiram Strong's

hopes.

“It's the clause in our agreement about the profits of our second season

that is my bright and shining star,” he told the good lady more than

once. “I don't know yet what we had better put in next year to bring us

a fortune; but we'll know before it comes time to plant it.”

Meanwhile the wheel-hoe and seeder he had insisted upon Mrs. Atterson

buying had arrived, and Hiram, after studying the instructions which

came with it, set the machine up as a seed-sower. Later, after the

bulk of the seeds were in the ground, he would take off the seeding

attachment and bolt on the hoe, or cultivator attachments, with which to

stir the soil between the narrower rows of vegetables.

As he made ready to plant seeds such as carrot, parsnip, onion, salsify,

and leaf-beet, as well as spring spinach, early turnips, radishes and

kohlrabi, Hiram worked that part of his plowed land over again and again

with the spike harrow, finally boarding the strips down smoothly as

he wished to plant them. The seedbed must be as level as a floor, and

compact, for good use to be made of the wheel-seeder.

When he had lined out one row with his garden line, from side to side of

the plowed strip, the marking arrangement attached to his seeder would

mark the following lines plainly, and at just the distance he desired.

Onions, carrots, and the like, he put in fifteen inches apart, intending

to do all the cultivating of those extremely small plants with the

wheel-hoe, after they were large enough. But he foresaw the many hours

of cultivating before him and marked the rows for the bulk of the

vegetables far enough apart, as he had first intended, to make possible

the use of the horse-hoe.

Meanwhile he spike-harrowed the potato patch, running cross-wise of the

rows to break the crust and keep down the quick-springing weed seeds.

The early peas were already above ground and when they were two inches

high Hiram ran his 14-tooth cultivator--or “seed harrow” as it is called

in some localities--close to the rows so as to throw the soil toward the

plants, almost burying them from sight again. This was to give the peas

deep rootage, which is a point necessary for the quick and stable growth

of this vegetable.

In odd moments Hiram had cut and set a few posts, bought poultry netting

in Scoville, and enclosed Mrs. Atterson's chicken-run. She had taken his

advice and sent for eggs, and already had four hens setting and expected

to set the remainder of the of the eggs in a few days.

Sister took an enormous interest in this poultry-raising venture. She

“counted chickens before they were hatched” with a vengeance, and after

reading a few of the poultry catalogs she figured out that, in three

years, from the increase of Mother Atterson's hundred eggs, the

eighty-acre farm would not be large enough to contain the flock.

“And all from five dollars!” gasped Sister. “I don't see why everybody

doesn't go to raising chickens--then there'd be no poor folks, everybody

would be rich--Well! I expect there'd always have to be institutions for

orphans--and boarding houses!”

The new-springing things from the ground, the “hen industry” and the

repairing and beautifying of the outside of the farmhouse did not take

up all their attention. There were serious matters to be discussed in

the evening, after the others had gone to bed, 'twixt Hiram and his

employer.

There was the five or six acres of bottom land--the richest piece of

soil of the entire eighty. Hiram had not forgotten this, and the second

Sunday of their stay at the farm, after the whole family had attended

service at a chapel less than half a mile up the road, he had urged Mrs.

Atterson to walk with him through the timber to the riverside.

“For the Land o' Goshen!” the ex-boarding house mistress had finally

exclaimed. “To think that I own all of this. Why, Hi, it don't seem as

if it was so. I can't get used to it. And this timber, you say, is all

worth money? And if I cut it off, it will grow up again----”

“In thirty to forty years the pine will be worth cutting again--and some

of the other trees,” said Hiram, with a smile.

“Well! that would be something for Sister to look forward to,” said

the old lady, evidently thinking aloud. “And I don't expect her

folks--whoever they be--will ever look her up now, Hiram.”

“But with the timber cut and this side hill cleared, you would have a

very valuable thirty acres, or so, of tillage--valuable for almost any

crop, and early, too, for it slopes toward the sun,” said the young

farmer, ignoring the other's observation.

“Well, well! it's wonderful,” returned Mrs. Atterson.

But she listened attentively to what he had to say about clearing the

bottom land, which was a much more easily accomplished task, as Hiram

showed her. It would cost something to put the land into shape for

late corn, and so prepare it for some more valuable crop the following

season.

“Well, nothing ventured, nothing have!” Mrs. Atterson finally agreed.

“Go ahead--if it won't cost much more than what you say to get the corn

in. I understand it's a gamble, and I'm taking a gambler's chance.

If the river rises and floods the corn in June, or July, then we get

nothing this season?”

“That is a possibility,” admitted Hiram.

“Go ahead,” exclaimed Mother Atterson. “I never did know that there was

sporting blood in me; but I kinder feel it risin', Hi, with the sap in

the trees. We'll chance it!”

Occasionally Hiram had stepped down to the pasture and squinted across

to the water-hole. The grass was not long enough yet to turn the cow

into the field, so he was obliged to make these special trips to the

pasture.

He had seen nothing of the Dickersons--to speak to, that is--since his

trouble with Pete. And, of a sudden, just before dinner one noon, Hiram

took a look at the pasture and beheld a figure seemingly working down in

the corner.

Hiram ran swiftly in that direction. Half-way there he saw that it was

Pete, and that he had deliberately cut out a panel of the fence and was

letting a pair of horses he had been plowing with, drink at the pool,

before he took them home to the Dickerson stable.

Hiram stopped running and recovered his breath before he reached the

lower corner of the pasture. Pete saw him coming, and grinned impudently

at him.

“What are you doing here, Dickerson?” demanded the young farmer,

indignantly.

“Well, if you wanter keep us out, you'd better keep up your fences

better,” returned Pete. “I seen the wires down, and it's handy----”

“You cut those wires!” interrupted Hiram, angrily.

“You're another,” drawled Pete, but grinning in a way to exasperate the

young farmer.

“I know you did so.”

“Wal, if you know so much, what are you going to do about it?” demanded

the other. “I guess you'll find that these wires will snap 'bout as fast

as you can mend 'em. Now, you can put that in your pipe an' smoke it!”

“But I don't smoke.” Hiram observed, growing calm immediately. There was

no use in giving this lout the advantage of showing anger with him.

“Mr. Smartie!” snarled Pete Dickerson. “Now, you see, there's somebody

just as smart as you be. These horses have drunk there, and they're

going to drink again.”

“Is that your father yonder?” demanded Hiram, shortly.

“Yes, it is.”

“Call him over here.”

“Why, if he comes over here, he'll eat you alive!” cried Pete,

laughing. “You don't know my dad.”

“I don't; but I want to,” Hiram said, calmly. “That's why you'd better

call him over. I have got pretty well acquainted with you, and the rest

of your family can't be any worse, as I look at it. Call him over,” and

the young farmer stepped nearer to the lout.

“You call him yourself!” cried Pete, beginning to back away, for he

remembered how he had been treated at his previous encounter with Hiram.

Hiram seized the bridles of the work horses, and shook them out of

Pete's clutch.

“Tell your father to come here,” commanded the young farmer, fire in his

eyes. “We'll settle this thing here and now.

“These horses are on Mrs. Atterson's land. I know the county stock

law as well as you do. You cut this fence, and your cattle are on her

ground.

“It will cost you a dollar a head to get them off again--if Mrs.

Atterson wishes to demand it. Now, call your father.”

Pete raised a yell which startled the long-legged man striding over the

hill toward the Dickerson farmhouse. Hiram saw the older Dickerson turn,

stare, and then start toward them.

Pete continued to beckon, and began to yell:

“Dad! Dad! He won't let me have the hosses!”

Sam Dickerson came striding down to the waterhole--a lean, long,

sour-looking man he was, with a brown face knotted into a continual

scowl, and hard, bony hands. Yet Hiram was not afraid of him.

“What's the trouble here?” growled the farmer.

“He's got the hosses. I told you the fence was down and I was goin' to

water 'em----”

“Shut up!” commanded his father, eyeing Hiram. “I'm talking to this

fellow: What's the trouble here?”

“Your horses are on Mrs. Atterson's land,” Hiram said, quietly. “You

know that stock which strays can be held for a dollar a head--damage or

no damage to crops. I warn you, keep your horses on your own land.”

“That's your fence; if you don't keep it up, who's fault is it if my

horses get on your land?” growled Dickerson, evidently making the matter

a personal one with Hiram.

“Your boy here cut the wires.”

“No I didn't, Dad!” interposed Pete.

Quick as a flash Hiram dropped the bridle reins, sprang for Pete, seized

him in a wrestler's grip, twisted him around, and tore from his pocket a

pair of heavy wire-cutters.

“What were you doing with these in your pocket, then?” demanded Hiram,

disdainfully, tossing the plyers upon the ground at Pete's feet, and

stepping back to keep the restless horses from leaving the edge of the

water-hole.

Sam Dickerson seemed to take a grim pleasure in his son's overthrow. He

growled:

“He's got you there, Pete. You'd better stop monkeyin' around here. Pick

up them bridles and come on.”

He turned to depart without another word to Hiram; but the latter did

not propose to be put off that way.

“Hold on!” he called. “Who's going to mend this fence, Mr. Dickerson?”

Dickerson turned and eyed him coldly again.

“What's that to me? Mend your own fence,” he said.

“Then I shall take these horses up to our barn. You can come and settle

the matter with Mrs. Atterson--unless you wish to pay me two dollars

here and now,” said the young farmer, his voice carrying clearly to

where the man stood upon the rising ground above him.

“Why, you young whelp!” roared Dickerson, suddenly starting down the

slope.

But Hiram Strong neither moved nor showed fear. Somehow, this sturdy

young fellow, in the high laced boots, with his flannel shirt open at

the throat, raw as was the day, his sleeves rolled back to his elbows,

was a figure to make even a more muscular man than Sam Dickerson

hesitate.

“Pete!” exclaimed the farmer, harshly, still eyeing Hiram. “Run up to

the house and bring my shotgun. Be quick about it.”

Hiram said never a word, and the horses, yoked together, began to crop

the short grass springing upon the bank of the water-hole.

“You'll find out you're fooling with the wrong man, you whippersnapper!”

promised Dickerson.

“You can pay me two dollars and I'll mend the fence; or you can mend the

fence and we'll call it square,” said Hiram, slowly, and evenly. “I'm a

boy, but I'm not to be frightened with a threat----”

Pete's long legs brought him flying back across the fields. Nothing he

had done in a long while pleased him quite as much as this errand.

Hiram turned, jerked at the horses' bridle-reins, turned them around,

and with a sharp slap on the nigh one's flank, sent them both trotting

up into the Atterson pasture.

“Stop that, you rascal!” cried Dickerson, grabbing the gun from his

hopeful son, and losing his head now entirely. “Bring that team back!”

“You mend the fence, and I will,” declared Hiram, unshaken.

The angry man sprang down to his level, flourishing the gun in a way

that would have been dangerous indeed had Hiram believed it to be

loaded. And as it was, the young farmer was very angry.

The right was on his side; if he allowed these Dickersons, father and

son, to browbeat him this once, it would only lead to future trouble.

This thing had to be settled right here and now. It would never do for

Hiram to show fear. And if both of the long-legged Dickersons pitched

upon him, of course, he would be no match for them.

But Sam Dickerson stumbled and almost fell as he reached the edge of the

water-hole, and before he could recover himself, Hiram leaped upon him,

seized the shotgun, and wrenched it from his hands.

He reversed the weapon in a flash, clubbed it, and raised it over his

head with a threatening swing that made Pete yell from the top of the

bank:

“Look out, Dad! He's a-goin' ter swat yer!”

Sam tried to scramble out of the way. But down came the gun butt with

all the force of Hiram's good muscle, and--the stock was splintered and

the lock shattered upon the big stone that here cropped out of the bank.

“There's your gun--what's left of it,” panted the young farmer, tossing

the broken weapon from him. “Now, don't you ever threaten me with a gun

again, for if you do I'll have you arrested.

“We've got to be neighbors, and we've got to get along in a neighborly

manner. But I'm not going to allow you to take advantage of Mrs.

Atterson, because she is a woman.

“Now, Mr. Dickerson,” he added, as the man scrambled up, glaring at him

evidently with more surprise than anger, “if you'll make Pete mend this

fence, you can have your horses. Otherwise I'm going to 'pound' them

according to the stock law of the county.”

“Pete,” said his father, briefly, “go get your hammer and staples and

mend this fence up as good as you found it.”

“And now,” said Hiram, “I'm going home to gear the horse to the wagon,

and I'll drive over to your house, Mr. Dickerson. From time to time you

have borrowed while Uncle Jeptha was alive quite a number of tools. I

want them. I have made inquiries and I know what tools they are. Just be

prepared to put them into my wagon, will you?”

He turned on his heel without further words and left the Dickersons

to catch their horses, and to repair the fence--both of which they did

promptly.

Not only that, but when Hiram drove into the Dickerson dooryard an hour

later he had no trouble about recovering the tools which the neighbor

had borrowed and failed to return.

Pete scowled at him and muttered uncomplimentary remarks; but Sam

phlegmatically smoked his pipe and sat watching the young farmer without

any comment.

“And so, that much is accomplished,” ruminated Hiram, as he drove home.

“But I'm not sure whether hostilities are finished, or have just begun.”

CHAPTER XV. ONE SATURDAY AFTERNOON

“The old Atterson place” as it was called in the neighborhood, began to

take on a brisk appearance these days. Sister, with the help of Old Lem

Camp, had long since raked the dooryard clean and burned the rubbish

which is bound to gather during the winter.

Years before there had been flower beds in front; but Uncle Jeptha had

allowed the grass to overrun them. It was a month too early to think of

planting many flowers; but Hiram had bought some seeds, and he showed

Sister how to prepare boxes for them in the sunny kitchen windows, along

with the other plant boxes; and around the front porch he spaded up a

strip, enriched it well, and almost the first seeds put into the ground

on the farm were the sweet peas around this porch. Mother Atterson was

very fond of these flowers and had always managed to coax some of them

to grow even in the boarding-house back yard.

At the side porch she proposed to have morning-glories and moon-flowers,

while the beds in front would be filled with those old-fashioned flowers

which everybody loves.

“But if we can't make our own flower-beds, we can go without them, Hi,”

said the bustling old lady. “We mustn't take you from your other work

to spade beds for us. Every cat's got to catch mice on this place, now I

tell ye!”

And Hiram certainly was busy enough these days. The early seeds were all

in, however, and he had run the seed-harrow over the potato rows again,

lengthwise, to keep the weeds out until the young plants should get a

start.

Despite the raw winds and frosts at night, the potatoes had come up well

and, with the steadily warming wind and sun, would now begin to grow.

Other farmers' potatoes in the vicinity were not yet breaking the

ground.

Early on Monday morning Henry Pollock appeared with bush-axe and

grubbing hoe, and Hiram shouldered similar tools and they started for

the river bottom. It was so far from the house that Mrs. Atterson agreed

to send their dinner to them.

“Father says he remembers seeing corn growing on this bottom,” said

Henry, as they set to work, “so high that the ears were as high up as a

tall man. It's splendid corn land--if it don't get flooded out.”

“And does the river often over-ran its banks?” queried Hiram, anxiously.

“Pretty frequent. It hasn't yet this year; there wasn't much snow last

winter, you see, and the early spring floods weren't very high. But

if we have a long wet spell, as we do have sometimes as late as July,

you'll see water here.”

“That's not very encouraging,” said Hiram. “Not for corn prospects, at

least.”

“Well, corn's our staple crop. You see, if you raise corn enough you're

sure of feed for your team. That's the main point.”

“But people with bigger farms than they have around here can raise corn

cheaper than we can. They use machinery in harvesting it, too. Why not

raise a better paying crop, and buy the extra corn you may need?”

“Why,” responded Henry, shaking his head, “nobody around here knows much

about raising fancy crops. I read about 'em in the farm papers--oh, yes,

we take papers--the cheap ones. There is a lot of information in 'em, I

guess; but father don't believe much that's printed.”

“Doesn't believe much that's printed?” repeated Hiram, curiously.

“Nope. He says it's all lies, made up out of some man's head. You see,

we useter take books out of the Sunday School library, and we had story

papers, too; and father used to read 'em as much as anybody.”

“But one summer we had a summer boarder--a man that wrote things. He

had one of these dinky little merchines with him that you play on like a

piano, you know----”

“A typewriter?” suggested Hiram, with a smile.

“Yep. Well, he wrote stories. Father learnt as how all that stuff was

just imaginary, and so he don't take no stock in printed stuff any more.”

“That man just sat down at that merchine, and rattled off a story that

he got real money for. It didn't have to be true at all.

“So father soured on it. And he says the stuff in the farm papers is

just the same.”

“I'm afraid that your father is mistaken there,” said Hiram, hiding

his amusement. “Men who have spent years in studying agricultural

conditions, and experimenting with soils, and seeds, and plants, and

fertilizers, and all that, write what facts they have learned for our

betterment.

“No trade in the world is so encouraged and aided by Governments, and by

private corporations, as the trade of farming. There is scarcely a State

which does not have a special agricultural college in which there are

winter courses for people who cannot give the open time of the year to

practical experiment on the college grounds.

“That is what you need in this locality, I guess,” added Hiram. “Some

scientific farming.”

“Book farming, father calls it,” said Henry. “And he says it's no good.”

“Why don't you save your money and take a course next winter in some

side line and so be able to show him that he's wrong?” suggested Hiram.

“I want to do that myself after I have fulfilled my contract with Mrs.

Atterson.

“I won't be able to do so next winter, for I shall be on wages. You're

going to be a farmer, aren't you?”

“I expect to. We've got a good farm as farms go around here. But it

seems about all we can do to pay our fertilizer bills and get a living

off it.”

“Then why don't you go about fitting yourself for your job?” “asked

Hiram. Be a good farmer--an up-to-date farmer.

“No fellow expects to be a machinist, or an electrician, or the like,

without spending some time under good instructors. Most that I know

about soils, and fertilizers, and plant development, and the like, I

learned from my father, who kept abreast of the times by reading and

experiment.

“You can stumble along, working at your trade of farming, and only half

knowing it all your life; that's what most farmers do, in fact. They are

too lazy to take up the scientific side of it and learn why.

“That's the point--learn why you do things that your father did, and his

father did, and his father before him. There's usually good reason why

they did it--a scientific reason which somebody dug out by experiment

ages ago; but you ought to be able to tell why.”

“I suppose that's so,” admitted Henry, as they worked on, side by side.

“But I don't know what father would say if I sprung a college course on

him!”

“I'd find out,” returned Hiram, laughing. “You'd better spend your money

that way than for a horse and buggy. That's the highest ambition of most

boys in the country.”

The labor of bushing and grubbing these acres of lowland was no light

one. Hiram insisted that every stub and root be removed that a heavy

plow could not tear out. They had made some progress by noon, however,

when Sister came down with their dinner.

Hiram built a campfire over which the coffee was re-heated, and the

three ate together, Sister enjoying the picnic to the full. She insisted

on helping in the work by piling the brush and roots into heaps for

burning, and she remained until midafternoon.

“I like that Henry boy,” she confided to Hiram. “He don't pull my braids,

or poke fun at me.”

But Sister was developing and growing fast these days. She was putting

on flesh and color showed in her cheeks. They were no longer hollow and

sallow, and she ran like a colt-and was almost as wild.

The work of clearing the bottom land could not be continued daily; but

the boys got in three full days that week, and Saturday morning. Henry,

did not wish to work on Saturday afternoon, for in this locality almost

all the farmers knocked off work at noon Saturday and went to town.

But when Henry shouldered his tools to go home at noon, Sister appeared

as usual with the lunch, and she and Hiram cut fishing rods and planned

to have a real picnic.

Trout and mullet were jumping in the pools under the bank; and they

caught several before stopping to eat their own meal. The freshly caught

fish were a fine addition to the repast.

They went back to fishing after a while and caught enough for supper at

the farmhouse. Just as they were reeling up their lines the silence of

the place was disturbed by a strange sound.

“There's a motorcycle coming!” cried Sister, jumping up and looking all

around.

There was a bend in the river below this bottom, and another above; so

they could not see far in either direction unless they climbed to the

high ground. For a minute Hiram could not tell in which direction the

sound was coming; but he knew the steady put-put-put must be the exhaust

of a motor-boat.

It soon poked its nose around the lower turn. It was a good-sized boat

and instantly Hiram recognized at least one person aboard.

Miss Lettie Bronson, in a very pretty boating costume, was in the bow.

There were half a dozen other girls with her--well dressed girls, who

were evidently her friends from the St. Beris school at Scoville.

“Oh, oh! what a pretty spot!” cried Lettie, on the instant. “We'll go

ashore here and have our luncheon, girls.”

She did not see Hiram and Sister for a moment; but the latter tugged at

Hiram's sleeve.

“I've seen that girl before,” she whispered. “She came in the carriage

with the man who spoke to you--you remember? She asked me if I had

always lived in the country, and how I tore my frock.”

“Isn't she pretty?” returned Hiram.

“Awfully. But I'm not sure that I like her yet.”

Suddenly Lettie saw Hiram and the girl beside him. She started, flushed

a little, and then gave Hiram a cool little nod and turned her gaze from

him. Her manner showed that he was not “down in her good books,” and the

young fellow flushed in turn.

“I don't know as we'd better try to make the bank here, Miss,” said the

man who was directing the motor-boat. “The current's mighty sharp.”

“I want to land here,” said Lettie, decidedly. “It's the prettiest spot

we've seen--isn't it, girls?”

Her friends agreed. Hiram, casting a quick eye over the ruffled surface

of the river, saw that the man was right. How well the stream below was

fitted for motor-boating he did not know; but he was pretty sure that

there were too many ledges just under the surface here to make it safe

for the boat to go farther.

“I intend to land here-right by that big tree!” commanded Lettie

Bronson, stamping her foot.

“Well, I dunno,” drawled the man; and just then the bow of the boat

swung around, was forced heavily down stream by the current, and slam it

went against a reef!

The man shot off the engine instantly. The bow of the boat was lodged

on the rock, and tip-tilted considerably. The girls screamed, and Lettie

herself was almost thrown into the water, for she was standing.