THE BLUEBIRD
Lettie Bronson did not come to Sunnyside again that spring, but her
father, of course, came frequently during the first weeks of Hiram's
incumbency as superintendent of the hillside farm.
It had been finally agreed that the shed to be built to house the
gang of workmen should be a permanent shelter for certain new farm
implements that Hiram and his employer had decided upon. And, in
addition, a silo was to be built.
"But go easy on the first cost, Hiram," Mr. Bronson continued. "This
farm is for sale. An expensive silo will not help sell it any quicker
than an old-fashioned silo."
"I don't know about that. It is altogether according to the man who
buys. But I am not opposed to the old-fashioned stave silo, only it
soon rots out."
"It will stand five years."
"And maybe for twenty," agreed Hiram quickly. "Just according."
"How about these new all metal ones?"
"They have not been tried out long enough for the reports of their
usefulness to be verified."
"My gang of carpenters can put up the stave silo," Mr. Bronson said.
"All right, sir. But buy iron hoops for supports, Mr. Bronson, and use
wire stays or one of these big winds they tell about around here will
blow your silo over--especially before it is filled."
"Oh, yes, we'll do that, of course."
The lumber began to arrive, truck load after truck load. The first
drivers to arrive at Sunnyside were very curious about the identity of
the boy from the East.
"Where's the boss, son?" Hiram was asked again and again as he met
strangers.
"I guess you will have to get along with me as boss," he was wont to
say quietly.
"You don't mean it! Bronson hasn't hired you to run this farm?"
"Yes. I'm going to try to run it."
"Well, I always did say that Bronson was crazy," was one frank
statement. "More money than brains--more money than brains! Ridiculous
to give a boy like you such a job!"
"That is to be seen," Hiram said coolly. "It does not always take frost
on the hair to ripen brains."
At this the man grinned and replied:
"You've got a tongue, at any rate, young fellow."
One incident did not pass off so pleasantly. A hulking young fellow
turned in at the gateway of Sunnyside and hailed Hiram:
"Where's your dad?"
"Unfortunately he has been dead for some years," Hiram told him. "Won't
I do?"
"Huh! Where's Mr. Bronson?"
"You'll find him at his home in Plympton."
"Well, when's he here?"
"I could not say for sure when he is to be here. Hadn't you better tell
me your business?"
"I hear he wants to hire men for work here; but I want to do my
business with the boss."
"Then you can talk with me, for anybody who works on this farm will
have to look upon me as the boss," Hiram told him, smiling.
"You ain't got charge of this farm?"
"Yes. Mr. Bronson has hired me in that capacity."
"Well, I'll be switched!"
"I want some men to ditch and for other heavy work for a few weeks,"
Hiram said calmly. "After that I shall need plowmen at better pay. You
are a farmer, I presume?"
"I presume I am," said the fellow scornfully. "But I don't want to hire
out to any kid. I want a man for a boss."
"I'm afraid I would not suit you then," sighed Hiram, with perfect
gravity. "Come around in a couple of years, when I am older, and
perhaps we can make a dicker."
The fellow went away muttering. Later Hiram chanced to pass the Pringle
cottage and the owner came to the gate to hail him.
"Did Adam Banks come to see you, Mr. Strong?"
"The big fellow with the mop of yellow hair? Yes, Miss Pringle; he said
he was looking for a job. But I doubt if he loses his eyesight looking
for it."
"You said something," declared Miss Pringle. "And he just said to me he
wouldn't be caught working at Sunnyside if you were going to run the
farm."
"No?"
"He said he should think Mr. Bronson could find enough men in the
neighborhood to do his work without sending off for a--a----"
"For a boy?" laughed Hiram. "If I can't make good in my job there will
soon be a chance for somebody else to take my place."
"For the land's sake! I do hope you will stop here, Mr. Strong. I
shouldn't want to see Mr. Bronson put a fellow like Ad Banks in charge
at Sunnyside. He'd be worse than that Jim Brandenburg that made me so
much trouble--burning everything all up."
"I hope your house that was burned was insured, Miss Pringle," Hiram
said.
"Yes, 'twas, Mr. Strong. But that piece of pine timber across the road
wasn't. The sparks flew from the house and caught that, and you can see
quite a patch of it was burned--completely ruined for any purpose, even
firewood. Who wants to handle wood that smuts you all up? I had a log
or two dragged up to the house and sawed and split; but Abigail can't
abide it. Says she won't have it in her kitchen. And I can't blame her."
"So you have no use for that burned timber?" asked Hiram thoughtfully.
"No more'n a cat has for two tails."
"Are you just going to let it stand there and be blown down by the
wind?"
"I've told some folks that haven't much firewood that they can have it
for the cutting and hauling."
"I don't know that Mr. Bronson would be willing to have me make just
that kind of a bargain," said Hiram smiling. "But I can make use of
some of those dead trees."
"You can? Remember they are fire-killed, Mr. Strong."
"I'll give you ten cents apiece for them, and I will have them cut and
hauled, of course."
"For the land's sake!" ejaculated Miss Pringle, her bargaining
instincts coming immediately to the fore, "I think that is an awful
small price."
The young fellow laughed. "That is just ten cents apiece more than you
had any expectation of getting for the burned trees, Miss Pringle."
"That may very well be," she argued. "But this is a bargain now. Money
is money. If you think the trees are worth ten cents apiece to you,
like enough they are worth a quarter each. I don't like to feel I've
done myself in any deal."
"I'm afraid you will own the timber a long while at that price."
"For the land's sake, you can raise me a little, can't you?"
"I don't see how I can," replied Hiram gravely.
"I have heard that you Down East Yankees are as sharp at bargaining as
can be. It does seem as though I ought to get fifteen cents apiece."
"The longer those blackened trees stand on your land, the longer the
land will be worth just nothing to you, Miss Pringle."
"Land isn't worth much to a lone woman like me, Mr. Strong," she
simpered. "Unless a body's got a man--"
When Miss Pringle got on this tack Hiram always felt embarrassed. He
started to break off negotiations at once.
"Oh, well, never mind. It was just an idea I had. Nothing much in it, I
guess."
He started on, but she got hold of his sleeve and held him tightly.
Hiram blushed, and he was sorry he had spoken about the timber. At any
rate he was very glad that Lettie Bronson did not see him now!
"For the land's sake!" cried Miss Pringle, "you're so sudden, Mr.
Strong. Won't you split the difference and give me twelve and a half
cents?"
A bargain was a bargain, and it was up to Hiram to do the best he could
for his employer. Besides, the use of the half-charred tree trunks was
at best an experiment.
"Ten cents is my best offer, Miss Pringle. I can use a hundred of the
burned trees; maybe two hundred."
"And only the charred ones, Mr. Strong?"
"You can keep tally on them," he said.
"All right. Seeing it is you, Mr. Strong," she concluded, her head on
one side and looking languishingly at him. "We're such friends, you
know."
Hiram groaned inwardly. But he went in with her then and there and
wrote out the agreement in duplicate, both signing the papers.
"Seems like a lot of folderol for ten or twenty dollars, Hiram," Miss
Pringle whispered. "But, of course, I understand you have to have
everything in writing to show Mr. Bronson. Mr. Bronson is a widower,
and they do say widowers are awful strict and stern."
But Hiram did not immediately tell Mr. Bronson of the bargain he had
made with Miss Pringle for the half-charred timber. However, he planned
to start certain activities at Sunnyside the very next day, and he
drove down to Pringleton to see if Mr. Oakley, the stationmaster, knew
of any laborers in the neighborhood who wished work.
Coming back, he saw Mr. Yancey Battick leaning upon his sagging front
gate. He had not seen the odd man to more than hail him since the time
he had sojourned with him over night.
"Looks like spring now, doesn't it, Mr. Battick?" Hiram suggested,
stopping his horse.
"I guess. And there's the first harbinger--a bluebird," and Battick
pointed up the road.
"What's that? Bluebird?" Then Hiram laughed, seeing the individual to
whom Battick referred. "The first tramp of the season?"
"Yes. And full as a tick, if I'm any judge," Battick said, with disgust.
The fellow up ahead was staggering as he walked, and there was reason
for thinking that he was intoxicated.
"He won't get far in that shape," Hiram said.
"He'll get far enough, perhaps," muttered Battick, turning away. "Look
out he doesn't get into your barn, Mr. Strong, and set the mow on fire."
The two chatted a few moments longer about the weather and neighborhood
affairs, and then Hiram started his horse and drove on toward Sunnyside
Farm.