"Who took the burr off the end of my axle and let me down in the road that night?" demanded Hiram, his rage rising.
Pete could not forbear a grin at this remembrance.
"And who tampered with our pump the next morning? And who watched and waited till we left the lower meadow that night we burned therubbish, and then set fire to our woods---"Mrs. Dickerson screamed again. "I knew that fire never come by accident," she moaned.
"You shut up, Maw!" admonished her hopeful son again.
"And now, I've got you," declared Hiram, with confidence. "I can tell those ten poults. I marked them for Sister long ago so that, if they went to the neighbors, they could be easily identified.
"They're in that shut-up coop down yonder," continued Hiram, "and unless you agree to bring them back at once, and put them in our coop, I shall hitch up and go to town, first thing, and get out a warrant for your arrest."Sam had remained silent for a minute, or two. Now he said, decidedly: "You needn't threaten no more, young feller. I can see plain enoughthat Pete's been carrying his fun too far---" "Fun!" ejaculated Hiram.
"That's what I said," growled Sam. "He'll bring the turkeys back-and before he has his breakfast, too.""All right," said Hiram, knowing full well that there was nothing to be made by quarreling with Sam Dickerson. "His returning the turkeys, how- ever, will not keep me from speaking to the constable the very next time Pete plays any of his tricks around our place.
"It may be 'fun' for him; but it won't look so funny from the inside of the town jail."He walked off after this threat. And he was sorry he had said it. For he had no real intention of having Pete arrested, and an empty threat is of no use to anybody.
The turkeys came back; Sister did not even know that they had been stolen, for when she went down to feed them about the middle of the forenoon, all ten came running to her call.
But Pete Dickerson ceased from troubling for a time, much to Hiram's satisfaction.
Meanwhile the crops were coming on finely. Hiram's tomatoes were bringing good prices in Scoville, and as he had such a quantity and was so much earlier than the other farmers around about, he did, as he told Henryhe would do, "skim the cream off the market."He bought some crates and baskets in town, too, and shipped some of the tomatoes to a produce man he knew in Crawberry--a man whom he could trust to treat him fairly. During the season that man's checks to Mrs. Atterson amounted to fifty-four dollars.
Three times a week the spring wagon went to town with vegetables for the school, the hotels, and their retail customers. The whole family worked long hours, and worked hard; but nobody complained.
No rain fell of any consequence until the latter part of July; and then there was no danger of the river overflowing and drowning out the corn.
And that corn! By the last of July it was waist high, growing rank and strong, and of that black-green color which delights the farmer's eye.
Mr. Bronson walked down to the river especially to see it. Like Hiram's upland corn, there was scarcely a hill missing, save where the muskrats had dug in from the river bank and disturbed the corn hills.
"That's the finest-looking corn in this county, bar none, Hiram," declared Bronson. "I have seldom seen better looking in the rich bottom- lands of the West. And you certainly do keep it clean, boy."" No use in putting in a crop if you don't 'tend it," said the young farmer, sententiously.
"And what's this along here?" asked the gentleman, pointing to a row or two of small stuff along the inner edge of the field.
"I'm trying onions and celery down here. I want to put a commercial crop into this field next year--if we are let stay here--that will pay Mrs. Atterson and me a real profit," and Hiram laughed.
"What do you call a real profit?" inquired Mr. Bronson, seriously. "Four hundred dollars an acre, net," said the young farmer, promptly. "Why, Hiram, you can't do that!" cried the gentleman.
"It's being done--in other localities and on soil not so rich as this--and I believe I can do it.""With onions or celery?" "Yes, sir." "Which--or both?" asked the Westerner, interested.
"I am trying them out here, as you see. I believe it will be celery. This soil is naturally wet, and celery is a glutton for water. Then, it is a latepiece, and celery should be transplanted twice before it is put in the field, I believe.""A lot of work, boy," said Mr. Bronson, shaking his head.
"Well, I never expect to get something for nothing," remarked Hiram. "And how about the onions?""Why, they don't seem to do so well. There is something lacking in the land to make them do their best. I believe it is too cold. And, then, I am watching the onion market, and I am afraid that too many people have gone into the game in certain sections, and are bound to create an over- supply."The gentleman looked at him curiously.
"You certainly are an able-minded youngster, Hiram," he observed. "I s'pose if you do so well here next year as you expect, a charge of dynamite wouldn't blast you away from the Atterson farm?""Why, Mr. Bronson," responded the young farmer, "I don't want to run a one-horse farm all my life. And this never can be much more. It isn't near enough to any big city to be a real truck farm--and I'm interested in bigger things.
"No, sir. The Atterson Eighty is only a stepping stone for me. I hope I'll go higher before long."
