FRICTION
The first truck to arrive that day at Sunnyside instead of bringing
lumber, bricks, or other building material, brought ten yearling steers
that Mr. Bronson had picked up from his other farms; and Hiram turned
the blatting, frisky creatures into the pen and shed in which he had
found Orrin Post the evening before.
One of the young cattle had a frayed bit of rope about its neck, and
Hiram went into the pen to get it off. The yearling ran into the far
corner of the shed and while he struggled to remove the rope, the young
farmer's eye caught the glint of something on the beams where he had
found the pipe that Miss Pringle declared was Adam Banks' property.
He had already looked about the shed for anything the sick man might
have dropped. There had been absolutely nothing in his clothes but a
little change and a pocketknife--no letter, or paper, or keepsake of
any kind. Nor had Hiram seen anything in the fodder where Orrin Post
had lain.
He reached up to this beam and out of the far corner, where a thin ray
of sunshine entered, he plucked a pint flask half filled with an amber
colored liquid, one sniff of which assured him was the probable product
of a peach-still somewhere in the neighborhood.
Had it not been for the pipe he had previously found, Hiram might have
believed this raw brandy the property of Orrin Post, in spite of the
fact that the condition in which the poor fellow had been when he took
shelter in the shed seemed to preclude his having hidden the brandy
flask.
The sick man was scarcely in his senses all that day. Every time Hiram
put his head in at the door of the incubator house, he found Miss
Pringle either fixing up the room, giving the patient his medicine, or
sitting sewing within reach of the bunk. She made Hiram go over to her
house for his dinner, and Abigail Wentworth, a tall, gaunt, elderly
woman with spectacles and a neat cap pinned upon her iron-grey hair to
hide her bald spot, served him a most satisfying, as well as appetizing
meal. He had not eaten many such since coming to Sunnyside Farm.
"I don't wish to seem harsh, Mr. Strong," said Abigail, "but it does
seem a blessing that that man came along and was taken sick as he was.
It's given Miss Delia something to do besides clutterin' up my kitchen.
I am blessed beyond all when some of the neighbors fall sick and will
let Miss Delia in to nurse 'em."
"I see she is a wonderful nurse," said Hiram approvingly.
"Well, she'll do less harm that way than most," said Abigail, who
seldom was known to approve thoroughly of anything finite. "But that's
what made trouble between her and that Yance Battick, I guess."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. He was pretty near down sick--just hobblin' around. Rheumatism
and all. That old Pringle house is as damp as the grave. Miss Delia
heard how bad off he was and off she marched with her pills and
plasters and what-not. But Yance Battick wasn't goin' to let no woman
into his house--and he told her so to her face."
"I don't think Mr. Battick understands Miss Pringle's character," said
Hiram. "He does not realize how very kind she means to be."
"'Means to be'--yes. That's it. I never could give three cheers for
those folks that always mean so much better than they do," sniffed
the angular woman, who could not even speak in entire approval of her
employer. "But it's wisdom to let fellows like Yance Battick alone.
Besides," she added, dropping her voice, "there's dark doin's in that
house of Battick's. Ain't no place for a decent, respectable woman."
"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Hiram, rather amused. "I stopped there
over night, and I saw nothing much out of the way."
"You weren't let to," said Abigail pursing her lips. "There's those
that say Yance Battick is deeper than Sim Paget's well--and _it_ never
had no bottom! He's got a power of knowledge that never came out of
books. And no man would ever be so crotchety and shy off his fellowmen
like Yance Battick does, if he wasn't sold, body and soul, to the
devil."
Hiram found no answer to this statement. It was evident that Abigail
Wentworth, lineal descendant of Salem Puritans transplanted to this
Middle West, possessed superstitions that are popular still in some
localities.
The following day Mr. Bronson came up to Sunnyside himself with some
more young cattle. He had heard of the "tramp" Hiram had taken in and
whom Miss Pringle was nursing. Hiram had had rather a hard night with
his patient; but he was freshened up when his employer arrived.
"You are a good chap, Hi," Mr. Bronson said. "But you'll overdo some
day, helping all the yellow dogs that come your way."
"Better speak to Miss Pringle about it, too," grinned Hiram. "And we're
not altogether sure he is a canine of the breed you mention."
"Well, I'll take him back with me to the Plympton hospital--if you say
so."
"I don't think that would be best. Miss Pringle says he is coming along
all right. He is pretty measly right now, and he might catch cold if he
was moved and then they'd 'strike in,' so she says. Then he'd be worse
off. Guess I've got him on my hands for a while."
"It's your funeral," Mr. Bronson said.
"And it might have been Orrin Post's funeral if I hadn't found him as I
did. Hello!" he added, as he observed the loutish figure of Adam Banks
approaching. "Here's a fellow wants to see you, I guess, Mr. Bronson."
"What about?"
"He _says_ he wants work. But he doesn't want to hire out to me--I'm
too young," laughed Hiram.
"Do you want him? I understand you are about ready to put a gang of
ditchers to work in that wheat field. But you haven't told me what kind
of underdraining you are going to do there. Tile is awfully expensive
just now, Hiram."
Adam Banks slouched into hearing before Hiram could reply.
"Well?" asked Mr. Bronson briskly of the newcomer. "Do you wish to see
me?"
"I hear you are hiring men for spring work, Mr. Bronson," said Banks
respectfully. "I'd like a job."
"I am not hiring anybody at Sunnyside," the farm owner said promptly.
"That is all in Mr. Strong's hands. If he likes your looks and can make
use of you--"
"That kid!" interrupted Adam Banks, turning red in the face and glaring
scornfully at Hiram. "I want work all right, but--"
"You don't act as though you do," Mr. Bronson interposed. "Mr. Strong
is in charge here."
"Why don't you get a man to run your farm for you, Mr. Bronson?" asked
Banks boldly. "You know my dad owns a good farm, and I've been brought
up to work. And I'm a voter. Why don't you give a young man like me a
chance to show you what can be done here on Sunnyside?"
"Well, now," Mr. Bronson said, his eyes twinkling, "I really didn't
know about you when I was looking about for a farmer. What's your name?"
"Ad Banks. You know my dad."
"I presume so. Well, Mr. Banks, I fear it is too late now. A bargain is
a bargain. I have hired Mr. Strong--"
"But that fellow ain't of age. You can see that plain. Your contract
ain't binding if he's under age--and he is."
"Indeed? Then you are quite a lawyer as well as a farmer, Mr. Banks.
However, I always consider a contract binding, with whomever made."
He turned away; but Adam Banks did not lack persistence. He urged:
"If you ain't found out yet whether this Strong can fill the bill or
no, I might be handy if I was working for you here, Mr. Bronson. I
could jump right in and take hold when he gets into trouble--as he
will. What are you paying for day's work?"
"I am not paying anything. I tell you, young man, Mr. Strong will do
all the hiring. And the discharging, too, for that matter. Do you want
this fellow, Hiram?" he asked the young farm manager bluntly.
"Say, what use is there askin' him?" broke in Banks, with disgust.
"He's heard what I said. He knows what I think of him for a boss. What
chance is there of my getting a job on his say-so?"
"I am afraid I cannot make use of Mr. Banks," said Hiram quietly.
"No! Of course you can't. You'd ruther take in tramps. I hear you've
begun that. And we don't think much of tramps in these parts."
Mr. Bronson merely smiled, waiting to see how Hiram Strong would handle
the situation.
"Just because you made a bid for my job doesn't influence me to refuse
your services, Mr. Banks," the boy from the East said. "But I have two
things against you."
"What's them?" demanded Banks sneeringly.
"Here they are," Hiram told him, and drew the pipe from one pocket and
the flask of peach-brandy from another. "Here is your pipe that you
left in one of our sheds day before yesterday, with burning tobacco
in it. And the quantity of peach-brandy you had evidently drunk out
of this flask made you forget both pipe and bottle. Neither of these
things find favor in my sight about a farm, either inside or outside of
a man."
"I'll be switched!" ejaculated Adam Banks. "Huh!"
His face blazed up and he gave every indication of having been caught
with the goods. He even accepted the pipe and flask. Both Hiram and Mr.
Bronson had already smelled liquor upon Adam Banks' breath. At least,
he had had something besides ham and eggs for breakfast. But suddenly
the loutish fellow decided not to acknowledge the ownership of the
articles.
"Here!" he growled. "These ain't mine. What are you trying to put over
on me, Strong? More'n likely they were brought on the place by that
tramp you've taken up with. I ain't been near your sheds."
"You were seen there," Hiram said sharply. "More than that, your pipe
has been identified. There is no use denying either fact. I shall not
hire you."
"Are you going to let me be treated like this, Mr. Bronson?" demanded
Adam Banks. "Dad's a neighbor. We live right here. That upstart,
Strong--"
"That will do," interrupted Mr. Bronson, waving his hand in dismissal.
"If Hiram doesn't want you that closes the discussion as far as I am
concerned," and he walked away with his young farm manager, leaving
Banks in the road.