'em. Oh, that's a clever young man! Benney, 'e sez, 'Give me the young
doctor,' sez 'e. Yeh see,” continued Mrs. Fallows confidentially, and
again lowering her voice impressively, “yeh see, 'is leg 'urt most orful
at first, an' Benny cried to me, 'It's in me toes, mother, it's in me
toes.' 'Why, Benny,' sez I to 'im, 'yeh hain't got no toes, Benny.'
'That's w'ere it 'urts,' sez 'e, 'toes or no toes.' An' father 'e wakes
right up an' 'erd w'at Benny was cryin', an' sez 'e, 'Benny's right
enough. 'Is toes'll 'urt till they're rotted away in the ground.' An' 'e
tells as 'ow 'is sister's holdest boy got 'is leg hamputated, poor soul!
an' 'ow 'is toes 'urted till they was took an' buried an' rotted away.
Some doctors don't bury 'em, an' they do say,” and here Mrs. Fallows'
voice dropped quite to a whisper, “as 'ow that keeps 'em sore all the
longer. Well, jest as father was speakin' in comes the doctor 'isself,
an' father 'e told 'im as 'ow Benny was feelin' the pain in 'is toes.
'In yer toes, Benny?' sez the doctor surprised-like. 'Tain't yer toes,
Ben.' 'Well, I guess it's me as is doin' the feelin',' sez Ben quite
sharp, 'an' it's in me toes the feelin' is.' Then father 'e spoke up.
'E's a terr'ble man fer hargument, is father. 'Doctor,' sez 'e, 'is them
toes buried, if I might be so bold?' 'Cawn't say,' sez the doctor quite
hindifferent, though 'e must 'a' knowed. 'Well, my opinion is,' sez
father, ''e'll feel them toes till they're took an' buried an'
rotted away in the ground.' An' then 'e tells 'bout 'is sister's boy.
'Nonsense,' sez the doctor, 'tain't 'is toes at all. 'Is toes 'as
nothin' to do with it.' 'W'at then?' asks father quite polite. 'It's the
feelin' of 'is toes 'e's feelin'.' ''Ow can 'e 'ave any feelin' of 'is
toes if 'e hain't got no toes?' 'Well,' sez the doctor, ''is feelin's
hain't in 'is toes at all.' 'Well, that's w'ere mine is,' sez father.
'W'en I 'urts my toes it's in my toes I feel 'em. W'en I 'urts my 'and,
it's my 'and.' 'My dear sir,' sez the doctor calm-like, 'it hain't in
yer 'and, nor yet in yer toes, but in yer brain, in yer mind, yeh feel
the pain.' 'P'raps,' sez Ben quite short again. My! 'e WAS short! 'But
the feelin' in my mind is that my toes is 'urtin' most orful, an' I'd
like to 'ave 'em buried if it's goin' to 'elp any.' 'Oh, come, Benny,
that's all nonsense, yeh know,' sez the doctor, puttin' 'im off. But
father is terr'ble persistent, an' 'e keeps on an' sez, 'Don't 'is mind
know 'e hain't got no toes, doctor? 'Ow can 'is mind feel 'is toes 'urt
w'en 'is mind knows 'e hain't got no toes to 'urt?' 'It hain't 'is toes,
I tell yeh,' sez the doctor quite short, 'jest the feelin' of 'is toes
in 'is mind.' 'The feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind?' sez father. 'But
'e hain't got no toes to give 'im the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind
or henywheres else.' 'Dummed old fool!' sez the doctor, quite losin'
'is temper, fer father is terr'ble provokin'. 'It's the feelin' 'is toes
used to give 'im, an' that same feelin' of toes keeps up after 'is toes
is gone.' 'Well,' sez father, an' me tryin' to ketch 'is eye to make 'im
stop, 'I don't git no feelin' of toes till me toes is 'urt. If I don't
'urt 'em, I don't git no feelin' of toes. 'Ow are yeh goin' to start
that ther' toe feelin' 'thout no toes to start it?' 'Yeh don't need
no toes to start it,' sez the doctor, 'it's the old feelin' of toes
a-keepin' up.' 'Ther' hain't no--' 'Look 'ere,' sez 'e, 'I tell yeh it
hain't toes, it's the nerves of the toes reachin' up to the brain. Don't
yeh see? W'en the toes are 'urt the nerves sends word up to the brain
jest like the telegraph.' Then father 'e ponders aw'ile. 'W'ere's them
nerves, doctor?' sez 'e. 'In the toes.' 'In the toes? Then w'en them
toes is gone them nerves is gone, hain't they?' 'Yes.' 'But the nerve
feelin' is ther' still.' This puzzles father some. 'Then,' sez 'e, 'the
feelin's in the nerves, an' if ther's no nerves, no feelin's.' 'That's
so,' sez the doctor. 'W'en them toes is gone, doctor, the nerves is
gone. 'Ow could ther' be any feelin's?' 'Look 'ere,' sez the doctor, an'
I was feared 'e was gettin' real mad, 'jest quit it right now.' 'Well,
well. All right, doctor,' sez father quite polite, 'I've got a terr'ble
inquirin' mind, an' I jest wanted to know.' Then the doctor 'e did seem
a little ashamed of 'isself, an' 'e set right down an' sez 'e, 'Look
a-'ere, Mr. Fallows, I'll hexplain it to yeh. It's like the telegraph
wire. 'Ere's a station we'll call Bradford, an' 'ere's a station we'll
call London. Hevery station 'as 'is own call. Bradford station, we'll
say, 'as a call X Y Z, an' w'enever X Y Z sounds yeh know that's
Bradford a-speakin'. So if yeh 'eerd X Y Z in London yeh'd know
somethin' was wrong with Bradford.' 'But if ther' hain't any,' breaks in
father, who was gettin' impatient. 'Shut up! will yeh?' sez the doctor,
'till I git through. Well; all 'long that Bradford line yeh can give
that Bradford call. D'yeh see?' 'Can yeh make that Bradford call
houtside of Bradford?' sez father. 'Well,' sez the doctor, an' 'e seemed
quite puzzled, 'e did, 'I suppose yeh can. Any kind of a bang'll do
along the line. Now ther's Benny's toes, w'en they git 'urt they sounds
up to the brain, “Toes! Toes! Toes!” an' all 'long that toe line yeh can
git the same call to the brain.' This keeps father quiet a long time,
then sez 'e, 'I say, doctor, is ther' many of them nerves?' ''Undreds
of 'em.' 'Hevery part of the body got nerves?' 'Yes.' 'Hankles? calves?
shins?' 'Yes, all got nerves.' 'Well, doctor,' sez father, quite
triumphant, 'w'en yeh cut through hankles, shins, an' heverythin', all
them nerves begin to shout, don't they?' 'Yes,' sez the doctor, not
seein' w'ere father was at. 'Then,' sez 'e quick-like, 'w'at makes 'em
all shout “Toes?” W'y don't the brain 'ear “Hankle” or “'Eel”?' Then
the old doctor 'e did git mad an' 'e did swear at father most orful. But
father, 'e knows 'ow to conduct 'isself, an' sez 'e quite dignified, 'I
'ope as 'ow I know 'ow to treat a gentleman.' This pulls the old doctor
up an' 'e sez, 'I beg yer pardon, Mr. Fallows,' sez 'e. 'Don't mention
it,' sez father. Then the doctor went on quite nice, 'Yeh see, Mr.
Fallows, the truth is, we don't hunderstand these things very well,' sez
'e. 'Well, doctor,' sez father, 'it would 'a' saved a lot of trouble
if yeh'd said so at the first.' An' 'e said no more, but I seed 'im
thinkin' 'ard, an' w'en the doctor was goin' 'e speaks up sez, sez 'e,
'I think I know w'y it's the shoutin' of toes keeps up an' not 'eels
or hankles,' sez 'e. 'W'en my thirteen gits a-shoutin' in this little
'ouse, yeh cawn't 'ear the old woman or me. Ther's thirteen of 'em.
An' I suppose w'en them toes gits a-shoutin' yeh cawn't 'ear nothin' of
hankle, or 'eel, but it's all toes. Ther's five to one. But, doctor,'
'e sez, as 'e druv' away, 'if it's not too bold, would yeh mind buryin'
them toes?'”
“But,” said Mrs. Fallows, pulling herself up, “I do talk. But poor
Benny, 'e kep' a-cryin' with 'is toes till that ther' blessed young lady
come, the young doctor fetched 'er, an' the minit she begin to sing,
poor Benny 'e fergits 'is toes an' 'e soon falls off to sleep, the first
'e 'ad fer two days an' two nights. Poor dear! An 'e hain't ever done
talkin' 'bout that very young lady an' the young doctor. An' a lovely
pair they'd make, poor souls.”
Margaret was conscious of a sudden pang at this grouping of names by
Mrs. Fallows, but before she had time to analyse her feelings Iola
reappeared.
“Well, good-bye,” said Mrs. Fallows. “Yeh'll come agin w'en yeh git
back. Good-bye, Miss,” she said to Margaret. “It does seem to give me a
fresh start w'en yeh put things to rights.”
It was not till that night when she was in her own room preparing for
bed that Margaret had time to analyse that sudden pang.
“It can't be that I am jealous,” she said. “Of course, she is far more
attractive than I am and why shouldn't everyone like her better?” She
shook her fist at her reflection in the glass. “Do you know, you are as
mean as you can be,” she said viciously.
At that moment there came from Iola's room the sound of soft singing.
“It's no wonder,” said Margaret as she listened to the exquisite sound,
“it's no wonder that she could catch poor Ben and his mother with a
voice like that. Yes, and--and the rest of them, too.”
In a few minutes there was a tap at her door and Iola came in, her
hair hanging like a dusky curtain about her face. Margaret uttered an
involuntary exclamation of admiration.
“My! you are lovely!” she cried. “No wonder everyone loves you.” With a
sudden rush of penitent feeling for her “mean thoughts” she put her arms
about Iola and kissed her warmly.
“Lovely! Nonsense!” she exclaimed, surprised at this display of
affection so unusual for Margaret, “I am not half so lovely as you. When
I see you at home here with all the things to worry you and the children
to care for, I think you are just splendid and I feel myself cheap and
worthless.”
Margaret was conscious of a grateful glow in her heart.
“Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, washing and dusting and
mending. Anybody could do it. No one would ever notice me. Wherever you
go the people just fall down and worship you.” As she spoke she let
down her hair preparatory to brushing it. It fell like a cloud,
a golden-yellow cloud, about her face and shoulders. Iola looked
critically at her.
“You are beautiful,” she said slowly. “Your hair is lovely, and your big
blue eyes, and your face has something, what is it? I can't tell you.
But I believe people would come to you in difficulty. Yes. That's it,”
she continued, with her eyes on Margaret's face, “I can please them in
a way. I can sing. Yes, I can sing. Some day I shall make people listen.
But suppose I couldn't sing, suppose I lost my voice, people would
forget me. They wouldn't forget you.”
“What nonsense!” said Margaret brusquely. “It is not your voice alone;
it is your beauty and something I cannot describe, something in your
manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the young fellows are daft
about you.”
“But the women don't care for me,” said Iola, with the same slow,
thoughtful voice. “If I wanted very much I believe I could make them.
But they don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me.”
“Now you're talking nonsense,” said Margaret impatiently. “You ought to
have heard old Mrs. Fallows this evening.”
“Now,” continued Iola, ignoring her remark, “the women all like you, and
the men, too, in a way.”
“Don't talk nonsense,” said Margaret impatiently. “When you're around
the boys don't look at me.”
“Yes, they do,” said Iola, as if pondering the question. “Ben does.”
Margaret laughed scornfully. “Ben likes my jelly.”
“And Dick does,” continued Iola, “and Barney.” Here she shot a keen
glance at Margaret's face. Margaret caught the glance, and, though
enraged at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush spreading over
her fair cheek and down her bare neck.
“Pshaw!” she cried angrily, “those boys! Of course, they like me. I've
known them ever since I was a baby. Why, I used to go swimming with
them in the pond. They think of me just like--well--just like a boy, you
know.”
“Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, that is, if they had a
chance to be anything.”
“Be anything!” cried Margaret hotly. “Why, Dick's going to be a minister
and--”
“Yes. Dick will do something, though he'll make a funny clergyman. But
Barney, what will he be? Just a miller?”
“Miller or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and that's good enough,”
replied Margaret indignantly.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You know in this pokey little
place no one will ever hear of him. I mean he'll never make any stir.”
To Iola there was no crime so deadly as the “unheard of.” “And yet,” she
went on, “if he had a chance--”
But Margaret could bear this no longer. “What are you talking about?
There are plenty of good men who are never heard of.”
“Oh,” cried Iola quickly, “I didn't mean--of course your father. Well,
your father is a gentle man. But Barney--”
“Oh, go to bed! Come, get out of my room. Go to bed! I must get to
sleep. Seven o'clock comes mighty quick. Good-night.”
“Don't be cross, Margaret. I didn't mean to say anything offensive. And
I want you to love me. I think I want everyone to love me. I can't bear
to have people not love me. But more than anyone else I want you.” As
she spoke she turned impulsively toward Margaret and put her arms around
her neck. Margaret relented.
“Of course I love you,” she said. “There,” kissing her, “good-night. Go
to sleep or you'll lose your beauty.”
But Iola clung to her. “Good-night, dear Margaret,” she said, her lips
trembling pathetically. “You are the only girl friend I ever had. I
couldn't bear you to forget me or to give up loving me.”
“I never forget my friends,” cried Margaret gravely. “And I never cease
to love them.”
“Oh, Margaret!” said Iola, trembling and clinging fast to her, “don't
turn from me. No matter what comes, don't stop loving me.”
“You little goose,” cried Margaret, caressing her as if she were a
child, “of course I will always love you. Good-night now.” She kissed
Iola tenderly.
“Good-night,” said Iola. “You know this is my last night with you for a
long time.”
“Not the very last,” said Margaret. “We go to the Mill to-morrow night,
you remember, and you come back here with me. Barney is going to have
Ben there for nursing and feeding.”
Next day Barney had Ben down to the Mill, and that was the beginning of
a new life to Ben in more ways than one. The old mill became a place of
interest and delight to him. Perhaps his happiest hours were spent in
what was known as Barney's workroom, where were various labour-saving
machines for churning, washing, and apple-paring, which, by Barney's
invention, were run by the mill power. He offered to connect the sewing
machine with the same power, but his mother would have none of it.
Before many more weeks had gone Ben was hopping about by the aid of a
crutch, eager to make himself useful, and soon he was not only “paying
his board,” as Barney declared, but “earning good wages as well.”
The early afternoon found Margaret and Iola on their way to the Mill. It
was with great difficulty that Margaret had been persuaded to leave
her home for so long a time. The stern conscience law under which she
regulated her life made her suspect those things which gave her peculiar
pleasure, and among these was a visit to the Mill and the Mill people.
It was in vain that Dick set before her, with the completeness amounting
to demonstration, the reasons why she should make that visit. “Ben needs
you,” he argued. “And Iola will not come unless with you. Barney and I,
weary with our day's work, absolutely require the cheer and refreshment
of your presence. Mother wants you. I want you. We all want you.
You must come.” It was Mrs. Boyle's quiet invitation and her anxious
entreaty and command that she should throw off the burden at times, that
finally weighed with her.
The hours of that afternoon, spent partly in rowing about in the old
flat-bottomed boat seeking water lilies in the pond, and partly in
the shade of the big willows overlooking the dam, were full of restful
delight to Margaret. It was one of those rare summer evenings that fall
in harvest weather when, after the burning heat of the day, the cool
air is beginning to blow across the fields with long shadows. When their
work was done the boys hurried to join the little group under the big
willows. They were all there. Ben was set there in the big armchair,
Mrs. Boyle with her knitting, for there were no idle hours for her,
Margaret with a book which she pretended to read, old Charley smoking
in silent content, Iola lazily strumming her guitar and occasionally
singing in her low, rich voice some of her old Mammy's songs or
plantation hymns. Of these latter, however, Mrs. Boyle was none too
sure. To her they bordered dangerously on sacrilege; nor did she ever
quite fully abandon herself to delight in the guitar. It continued to be
a “foreign” and “feckless” sort of instrument. But in spite of her there
were times when the old lady paused in her knitting and sat with sombre
eyes looking far across the pond and into the shady isles of the woods
on the other side while Iola sang some of her quaint Southern “baby
songs.”
Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the Highland laments and
love songs of the North, to which his mother had hushed him to sleep
through his baby years. To Barney these songs took place with the Psalms
of David, if, indeed, they were not more sacred, and it was with a shock
at first that he heard the Southern girl with her “foreign instrument”
try over these songs that none but his mother had ever sung to him.
Listening to Iola's soft, thrilling voice carrying these old Highland
airs, he was conscious of a strange incongruity. They undoubtedly took
on a new beauty, but they lost something as well.
“No one sings them like your mother, Barney,” said Margaret after Dick
had been drilling Iola on some of their finer shadings and cadences,
“and they are quite different with the guitar, too. They are not the
same a bit. They make me see different things and feel different things
when your mother sings.”
“Different how?” said Dick.
“I can't tell, but somehow they give me a different taste in my mouth,
just the difference between eating your mother's scones with rich creamy
milk and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to drink.”
“I know,” said Barney gravely. “They lose the Scotch with the guitar.
They are sweet and beautiful, wonderful, but they are a different kind
altogether. To me it's the difference between a wood violet and a garden
rose.”
“Listen to the poetry of him. Come, mother,” cried Dick, “sing us one
now.”
“Me sing!” cried the mother aghast. “After yon!” nodding toward Iola.
“You would not be shaming your mother, Richard.”
“Shaming you, indeed!” cried Margaret, indignantly.
“Do, Mrs. Boyle,” entreated Iola. “I have never heard you sing. Indeed,
I did not know you could sing.”
Something in her voice grated upon Barney's ear, but he spoke no word.
“Sing!” cried Dick. “You ought to hear her. Now, mother, for the honor
of the heather! Give us 'Can Ye Sew Cushions?' That's a 'baby song,'
too.”
“No,” said Barney quietly, “Sing 'The Mac'Intosh,' mother.” And he began
to play that exquisite Highland lament.
It was not her son's entreaty so much as something in the soft drawl
of the Southern girl that made Mrs. Boyle yield. Something in that tone
touched the pride in the old lady's Highland blood. When Barney reached
the end of the refrain his mother took up the verse with the violin
accompanying.
Her voice lacked fulness and power. It was worn and thin, but she had
the exquisite lilting note of the Highland maids at their milking or of
the fisher folk at the mending of their nets. Clear and sweet and with
a penetrating pathos indescribable, the voice rose and fell in all the
quaint turns and quavers and cadences that a tune takes on with age. As
she sang her song in the soft Gaelic tongue, with hands lying idly in
her lap, with eyes glowing in their gloomy depths, the spell of mountain
and glen and loch fell upon her sons and upon the girl seated at her
feet, while Iola's great lustrous eyes, fastened upon the stranger's
face, softened to tears.
“Oh, that is too lovely!” cried Iola, when the song was done, clapping
her hands. “No, not lovely. That is not the word. Sad, sad.” She hid her
face in her hands one impulsive moment, then said softly, “I could never
do that. Never! Never! What is it you put into the song? What is it?”
she cried, turning to Barney.
“It's the moan of the sea,” said Barney gravely.
“It gives a feller a kind of holler pain inside,” said Ben Fallows.
“There hain't no words fer it.”
“Sing again,” entreated Iola, all the lazy indifference gone from her
voice. “Sing just one more.”
“This one, mother,” said Barney, playing the tune, “your mother used to
sing, you know, 'Fhir a Bhata'.”
“How often haunting the highest hilltop,
I scan the ocean thy sail to see;
Wilt come to-night, Love? wilt come to-morrow?
Wilt ever come, love, to comfort me?
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
O fare ye well, love, where'er ye be.”
For some moments they sat quiet with the spell of the dreamy, sad music
upon them.
“One more, mother,” entreated Dick.
“No, laddie. The night is falling. There's work to-morrow for you. Aye,
and for Margaret here.”
Iola rose and came timidly to Mrs. Boyle. “Thank you,” she said, lifting
up her great, dark eyes to the old woman's face, “you have given me
great pleasure to-night.”
“Indeed, and you're welcome, lassie,” said Mrs. Boyle, smitten with a
sudden pity for the motherless girl. “And we will be glad to see ye when
ye come back again.”
For this, too, it was that Iola as well as Margaret could never forget
that afternoon.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” cried Dick, striking an attitude,
“though the 'good cheer' department may seem to have accomplished the
purpose for which it was organised, it cannot be said to have outlived
its usefulness, in that it appears to have created for itself a sphere
of operations from which it cannot be withdrawn without injury to all
its members. I, therefore, respectfully suggest that the department be
organised upon a permanent basis with headquarters at the Mill and my
humble self at its head. All who agree will say 'Aye'.”
“Aye,” said Barney with prompt heartiness.
“Me, too,” cried Iola, holding up both hands.
“Mother, what do you say?”
“Aye, laddie. There's much need for good cheer in the world.”
“And you?” turning to Margaret, who stood with Mrs. Boyle's arm thrown
about her, “how do you vote?”
“This member needs it too much”--with a somewhat uncertain smile--“to
say anything but 'Aye'.”
“Then,” said Dick solemnly, “the 'good cheer' department is hereby and
henceforth organised as a permanent institution in the community here
represented, and we earnestly hope that its members will continue in
their faithful adherence thereto, believing, as we do, that loyalty to
this institution will be its highest reward.”
But none of them knew what potencies of joy and of pain lay wrapped up
for them all in that same department of “good cheer.”
VIII
BEN'S GANG
The harvest time in Ontario is ever a season of delightful rush and
bustle. The fall wheat follows hard upon the haying, and close upon the
fall wheat comes the barley, then the oats and the rest of the spring
grain.
It was this year to be a more than usually busy time for the Boyle
boys. They had a common purse, and out of that purse the payments on the
mortgage must be met, as well as Dick's college expenses. For the little
farm, with the profits from the mill, could do little more than provide
a living for the family. Ordinarily the lads worked for day's wages,
the farmers gladly paying the highest going, for the boys were famous
binders and good workers generally. This year, however, they had in mind
something more ambitious.
“Mother,” said Dick, “did you hear of the new harvesting gang?”
“And who might they be?” asked his mother, always on the lookout for
some nonsense from her younger son.
“Boyle and Fallows--or Fallows and Boyle, I guess it will be. Ben's
starting with us Monday morning.”
“Nonsense, laddie. There will be no reaping for Ben this year, I doubt,
poor fellow; and, besides, I will be needing him for myself.”
“Yes. But I am in earnest, mother. Ben is to drive the reaper for us.
He can sit on the reaper half a day, you know. At least, his doctor here
says so. And he will keep us busy.”
“If I cawn't keep the two of you a-humpin', though you are some pumpkins
at bindin', I hain't worth my feed.”
“But, Barney,” remonstrated his mother, “is he fit to go about that
machine? Something might happen the lad.”
“I don't think there is any danger, mother. And, besides, we will be at
hand all the time.”
“And what will two lads like you do following the machine all day? You
will only be hurting yourselves.”
“You watch us, mother,” cried Dick. “We'll be after Ben like a dog after
a coon.”
“Indeed,” said his mother. “I have heard that it takes four good men to
keep up to a machine. It was no later than yesterday that Mr. Morrison's
Sam was telling me that they had all they could do to follow up, the
whole four of them.”
“Huh!” grunted Dick scornfully, “I suppose so. Four like Fatty Morrison
and that gang of his!”
“Hush, laddie. It is not good to be speaking ill of your neighbours,”
said his mother.
“It's not speaking ill to say that a man is fat. It's a very fine
compliment, mother. Only wish someone could say the same of me.”
“Indeed, and you would be the better of it,” replied his mother
compassionately, “with your bones sticking through your skin!”
It was with the spring crop that Ben Fallows began his labours; and much
elevated, indeed, was he at the prospect of entering into partnership
with the Boyle boys, who were renowned for the very virtues which poor
Ben consciously lacked and to which, in the new spirit that was waking
in him, he was beginning to aspire. For the weeks spent under Barney's
care and especially in the atmosphere of the Mill household had
quickened in Ben new motives and new ambitions. This Barney had noticed,
and it was for Ben's sake more than for their own that the boys
had associated him with them in their venture of taking harvesting
contracts. And as the summer went on they found no reason to regret the
new arrangement. But it was at the expense of long days and hard days
for the two boys following the reaper, and often when the day's work was
done they could with difficulty draw their legs home and to bed. Indeed,
there were nights when Dick, hardly the equal of his brother in weight
and strength, lay sleepless from sheer exhaustion, while Barney from
sympathy kept anxious vigil with him. Morning, however, found them stiff
and sore, it is true, but full of courage and ready for the renewal
of the long-drawn struggle which was winning for them not only very
substantial financial profits, but also high fame as workers. The end of
the harvest found them hard, tough, full of nerve and fit for any call
within the limit of their powers. It was Ben who furnished the occasion
of such a call being made upon them. A rainy day found him at the
blacksmith shop with the Mill team waiting to be shod. The shop was full
of horses and men. A rainy day was a harvest day for the blacksmith. All
odd jobs allowed to accumulate during the fine weather were on that day
brought to the shop.
Ben, with his crutch and his wooden leg, found himself the centre of a
new interest and sympathy. In spite of the sympathy, however, there was
a disposition to chaff poor Ben, whose temper was brittle, and whose
tongue took on a keener edge as his temper became more uncertain.
Withal, he had a little man's tendency to brag. To-day, however, though
conscious of the new interest centring in him, and though visibly
swollen with the importance of his new partnership with the Boyle boys,
he was exhibiting a dignity and self-control quite unusual, and was, for
that very reason, provocative of chaff more pungent than ordinary.
Chief among his tormenters was Sam Morrison, or “Fatty” Morrison, as
he was colloquially designated. Sam was one of four sons of “Old King”
Morrison, the richest and altogether most important farmer in the
district. On this account Samuel was inclined to assume the blustering
manners of his portly, pompous, but altogether good-natured father, the
“Old King.” But while bluster in the old man, who had gained the respect
and esteem that success generally brings, was tolerated, in Sammy
it became ridiculous and at times offensive. The young man had been
entertaining the assembled group of farmers and farm lads with vivid
descriptions of various achievements in the harvest field on the part of
himself or some of the members of his distinguished family, the latest
and most notable achievement being the “slashing down and tying up” of
a ten-acre field of oats by the four of them, the “Old King” himself
driving the reaper.
“Yes, sir!” shouted Sammy. “And Joe, he took the last sheaf right off
that table! You bet!”
“How many of you?” asked Ben sharply.
“Just four,” replied Sammy, turning quickly at Ben's unexpected
question.
“How many shocking?” continued Ben, with a judicial air.
“Why, none, you blamed gander! An' kep' us humpin', too, you bet!”
“I guess so,” grunted Ben, “from what I've seed.”
Sam regarded him steadfastly. “And what have you 'seed,' Mr. Fallows,
may I ask?” he inquired with fine scorn.
“Seed? Seed you bindin', of course.”
“Well, what are ye hootin' about?” Sam was exceedingly wroth.