RECEIVING POINTERS
“Much money in it?” asked several.
“All we had, save a few dollars.”
“Railroad tickets, too?”
“No, I have those. At least, I think I have,” said Phil. “They were in
my coat.”
“Better look and make sure,” advised Mr. Hopkins. “Come, Ted, we’ll go
find the conductor.”
Ere the boy and his friend had left the car, Phil called:
“The tickets are safe.”
“Evidently the thief dropped the coat before he could search it,”
commented Mr. Hopkins. “I’m glad of that. How much money did you lose,
Ted?”
“It wasn’t money, sir. We had a letter of credit.”
“Good for you. Then you won’t lose a cent. Just have a little delay,
that’s all. I’ll have the conductor notify your bank. In the meantime,
if you need any ready money, I shall be glad—”
“Thank you, we have about thirty dollars between us, in other pockets.”
While they had been talking, the two had passed through three coaches in
quest of the conductor, finally finding him in the fourth.
“Suspect any one?” demanded that official, when he had been apprised of
the robbery.
“No,” returned Ted.
“Then it’s a hopeless task to locate the thief, I’m afraid,” said the
conductor.
“Just write a telegram to the bank and I’ll send it at the next
station.”
Ordering a brakeman to stay in each passenger coach for the remainder of
the night, the man in charge of the train went to the scene of the theft
and closely questioned all the passengers, but none of them had seen or
heard anything until awakened by Phil’s cries.
The next morning, the conductor reported that a passenger was missing
from the car ahead of the boys.
At the announcement Ted started, then, without a word of explanation,
hastened to the forward coach, where he found that his talkative
acquaintance was nowhere to be seen.
When informed of the facts, the conductor obtained a description of the
missing man, which was telegraphed broadcast, and ere evening word was
received of the fellow’s arrest, with the letter of credit intact,
though he had destroyed Ted’s correspondence.
Assured that their “letter” was being forwarded to them on the train
following, the boys recovered their former high spirits. The wheat
fields had given way to the grazing grounds of Montana, and they beheld
with interest the herds of cattle and horses, and cried out in delight
at their first sight of real cowboys galloping over the range.
“Look! Look! Those must be the Rockies!” exclaimed Ted, as he caught a
glimpse of a towering mass from his window toward the middle of the
afternoon.
His words sent the other passengers to their windows, and they gazed
with awe and wonder at the massive mountains whose summits sparkled with
dazzling brilliance, in marvellous colours reflecting the sun’s rays as
they danced on the snow-capped peaks.
“_Now_ what do you think of your Eastern hills?” smiled Mr. Hopkins,
turning toward Ted.
“They are more beautiful because they are entirely wooded. These are too
big and brutal.”
“Perhaps you are right, anyhow you are loyal,” laughed the man. “The
Rockies are certainly ‘bad medicine,’ as they say out here, to any one
who gets lost on them.”
This remark evoked many stories of men who had never been seen after
entering the mountains, to which the young people listened eagerly until
their attention was diverted by a man and woman, both scarcely out of
their teens, who boarded the car when a train stopped at a forsaken
railroad junction.
“B. and G.,” snickered Phil.
“What’s a B. and G.?” asked one of the others.
“Hush, not so loud!” cautioned Ted. “It means bride and groom.”
At the words the newcomers became the centre of attraction, but they did
not seem to mind in the least, for, after they had stowed their luggage
and removed their hats and coats, they joined the group in the middle of
the car.
“Just been down to the government’s experiment station at Boscow,”
announced the young chap.
Instantly the young homesteaders were all attention. Before purchasing
their tickets in Duluth, they had debated the advisability of visiting
one of these farms, but had abandoned the idea because of the increased
expense.
“Me and my wife ’lowed we’d combine business and pleasure. We just been
hitched, so—”
“Lawsy, Jerry, do be quiet!” pouted the bride. “There ain’t no need of
telling everybody we are—”
“Well, ain’t ashamed, even if you be,” retorted Jerry.
“’Tain’t that, and you know it, but everybody has troubles of their
own.”
“As if you was a trouble, Rosey.”
Fearing that the other young people might not be able to restrain their
amusement at this scene much longer, Mr. Hopkins put an end to the
danger of offending the bride and groom by asking:
“How did you find things at Boscow? I’ve always thought I should like to
see how they run one of those experimental farms, or stations, as they
call them.”
“Well, you’d better save your money. It’s interesting, of course, but
it’s all experiment,” replied Jerry. “The whole farm is divided up into
sections. In one they grow stuff according to the way it’s always been
growed, and in the next they are experimenting with some idee one of the
experts has had. Then, ’s like as not, the next section ain’t got
nothing planted at all, just going to waste. And the whole kerboodle of
’em is jest ‘loco’ over one idee—‘cultivation.’ If you ask how many
times to irrigate a field of wheat, they’ll say ‘depends on how it’s
been cultivated.’ It’s ‘cultivate’ all the time. Dryfarming may be all
right, but there’s too much ‘cultivating’ and subsoil business about it
for me. I’ll bet if you waked any of ’em up and told them there was a
tornado coming, they’d ask how often it had been ‘cultivated.’”
“I’m afraid you were more interested in Rosey than in the farm,” smiled
Mr. Hopkins, as the young husband paused in his tirade against the
government stations. “Thanks to the experiments conducted by the
government, millions of acres that were considered barren are now
bearing crops, and it is cultivation that has wrought the change. Where
the rainfall is light and the expense of irrigation is high, the lack of
water can be overcome to a certain extent by keeping the soil free from
weeds and from a sun-baked crust, which cultivation does. In other
words, dry-farming where the subsoil is suitable. Yet it is only through
numerous experiments that this has been proved. The field that you
thought was going to waste was undoubtedly a ‘summer fallow.’ In the
semi-arid regions the ground cannot produce crops year after year. When
a field which has been cultivated has been left unplanted, it is called
a ‘fallow.’ But in order to enable it to regain its vigour, the ground
must be kept free from weeds and the crust broken, in other words,
cultivated.”
“But why couldn’t they tell me how many times to irrigate a wheat
field?” demanded Jerry.
“Because that depends on several things—the kind of soil, the grade of
the land, the number of years it has been planted, and its general
condition. After all, it is a matter of experience.”
“Then what’s the use of the experiment stations?” persisted the groom.
“Just this. The experts on them plant several fields of, say, wheat and
employ a different method with each. A record is kept of each field, and
when the wheat is harvested, the yields are compared. The method that
has produced the most bushels per acre is then recommended to
wheat-growers where the soil conditions are similar.”
“Say, I wish the government would put you on the Boscow station, then a
fellow could know what they were talking about without toting a
dictionary round with him,” commented Jerry. “How can I tell if the
subsoil is fit for dry-farming or not?”
“Only by examination. They use a bore some six feet long; I suppose you
saw one at Boscow. No? Well, it is a great big augur, with a mark at
every foot. Samples of the soil are taken at each foot, and these are
examined for moisture and composition. As a usual thing, the greatest
moisture is found at a depth of from three to four feet, where there is
generally a crust-like formation which holds it. This means that the
roots of plants and grains must go down three feet for water when the
surface ground is dry. Where this moisture reservoir is five or more
feet below the level of the field, the subsoil is said to be unadapted
to dry-farming.”
For a long time the young homesteaders listened while Mr. Hopkins and
Jerry discussed various phases of farming and irrigation; then their
attention was absorbed in looking at the gorges and canyons disclosed as
the train wound in and out in its ascent of the Rockies.
At last the station was announced at which the Hopkinses were to leave.
“Don’t forget to send that list to your mother,” reminded the
kind-hearted woman, as she bade the boys good-bye.
“And be sure to let me know how you are getting along and to come to see
us, if you ever have the chance,” chimed in her husband. “We make our
home with my son Fred, here at Avon.”
Heartily the boys thanked them for the invitation, their many
kindnesses, and the very useful and practical advice.
“Seems as though we were leaving old friends, doesn’t it, Phil?”
observed Ted, as they returned to the car, having assisted Mr. and Mrs.
Hopkins to carry out their bundles.
“I hope you aren’t going into a funk every time any one gets off,”
scoffed his brother. But Jerry prevented any reply.
“Who was that old party?” he asked, dropping into the boys’ section.
“His name is Silas Hopkins, that’s all I can tell you about him,”
returned Phil.
“Not really?”
“So he told us.”
“Lawsy me! And here I was a-talking to him jest as though he was you or
me.”
Jerry’s surprise amused the young homesteaders, and, after laughing at
it, Ted asked:
“Why shouldn’t you? We were fellow passengers.”
“Me talk to Silas Hopkins like I did if I’d knowed who he was? Not on
your alfalfa! I wouldn’t have dared open my yip, let alone a-disputing
with him. Lawsy me! Rosey, come here!” he suddenly called. “Who do you
suppose it was that I was a-arguing with?”
“How should I know, if you didn’?”
“It was Silas Hopkins!”
“Lawsy!” gasped the bride, rolling her eyes up.
It was the boys’ turn to be surprised at the effect of the name upon the
two Westerners, and they wondered at it.
“Who is Silas Hopkins?” finally asked Phil.
“Who is he? Say, where do you come from?”
“Boston.”
“And you ain’t heered of Si Hopkins?”
“No.”
“Then I guess I ain’t such a gawp, after all.”
“But who is he?”
“The biggest wheat-grower west of the Rockies and a millionaire.”
“A mult-i-millionaire,” corrected Rosey.