Hidden Treasure / Simpson, John Thomas

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Hidden Treasure, by John Thomas Simpson

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: Hidden Treasure

Author: John Thomas Simpson

Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5870]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on September 15, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIDDEN TREASURE ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team





HIDDEN TREASURE

THE STORY OF A CHORE BOY WHO MADE THE OLD FARM PAY

BY

JOHN THOMAS SIMPSON

COLORED FRONTISPIECE BY E.H. SUYDAM
AND 16 ILLUSTRATIONS

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON

1919



PREFACE


A few years ago the author visited the farm in Western Pennsylvania on
which he had lived for a number of years when a boy. Much to his
surprise there was not a boy of his acquaintance still on the
neighboring farms, many of which had passed into other hands, and in
some cases even the names of the original owners had been forgotten.

He bumped over the two short miles of road, still deep with mud,
between the town and the farm, and could scarcely recognize in the
weedy fields before him, with their broken-down fences partly
concealed by undergrowth, the fertile acres of his boyhood.

The orchard, once kept so neatly pruned, was now with trees that were
gnarled and broken--while rich bottom land, so productive in years
past, was foul with all manner of rank growth. The lane leading up to
the house from the main road was in such bad repair that he had to
leave his automobile on the main road and complete his journey on
foot.

Investigation showed that many of the farms in the neighborhood were
in a similar rundown condition; that farm work was generally
considered unprofitable or uncongenial; and that the boys and girls
born in the country usually took the first opportunity to leave the
farms, often for harder and less profitable work in the cities.

In the hope that many boys and girls now living on farms, as well as
others, who, if they knew of the advantages of labor-saving machinery
and modern farm buildings (to say nothing of the interest of outdoor
work), would take up this, the most profitable and independent of all
occupations--FARMING--this story of Hidden Treasure is written.

THE AUTHOR
FEBRUARY, 1919




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


The author begs to acknowledge his indebtedness for valuable
information to:

A.A. Drew, Superintendent of Agencies, of the Mutual Benefit Life
Insurance Company, Newark, New Jersey, for Constructive Banking and
Life Insurance.

Bucyrus Company, South Milwaukee, Wisconsin, for Trenching with Steam
Shovels.

Waterloo Cement Machinery Company, Waterloo, Iowa, for Concrete Mixing
Machines.

Hercules Powder Company, Hazleton, Pennsylvania, for Progressive
Cultivation and Trench Digging by Dynamite.

International Harvester Company of America, Chicago, Illinois, for
Tractors and Farm Machinery.

George M. Wright, owner of Indian Hill Farm, Worcester, Massachusetts,
for Holstein Cattle, Dairy Methods and Poultry Raising.

John W. Odlin, Publicity Department, Wright Wire Company, Worcester,
Massachusetts, Wire Fencing.

C.P. Dadant, Editor American Bee Journal, Hamilton, Illinois, Bee
Culture.

The Sharpies Separator Company, West Chester, Pennsylvania, for
Milking Machines and Cream Separators.

D. & A. Post Mold Company, Three Rivers, Michigan, for Concrete Fence
Posts.

A.A. Simpson, Indiana, Pennsylvania, for much data regarding crop
production and market values in that vicinity.

The Domestic Engineering Company, Dayton, Ohio, for Electric Light and
Power for Farms.

The Portland Cement Association, Chicago, Illinois, for Concrete
Buildings and Road Construction.

United States Department of Agriculture, Washington, D.C., for
Farmers' Bulletins covering the great range of subjects referred to
throughout the story.

The Country Gentleman, Philadelphia, Pa., for much helpful data on
general farming and stock raising.

K.C. Davis, Knapp School of Country Life, Nashville, Tenn., for a
final reading of the proof sheets.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

    I. THE OLD HOMESTEAD

   II. A DAY'S WORK

  III. A RAINY DAY

   IV. DRAINING THE POND

    V. SELLING TURTLES

   VI. SELLING SAND

  VII. THE NEW AUNT

 VIII. THE SALE

   IX. POWER AND BANKING

    X. RUNNING WATER

   XI. TONY

  XII. THE DAIRY HOUSE

 XIII. VISITORS

  XIV. RUTH AND THE STRAW STACK

   XV. NEW METHODS

  XVI. RUTH AND JERRY

 XVII. FILLING THE INCUBATOR

XVIII. THE NEW IMPLEMENTS

  XIX. THE STORM

   XX. GOOD ROADS

  XXI. FILLING THE SILO

 XXII. THE FAIR

XXIII. CHRISTMAS AT BROOKSIDE FARM

 XXIV. COST ACCOUNTING




ILLUSTRATIONS



The Afternoon was Spent Examining the Buildings and Looking
Over the Plans for the New Barn

The Old Homestead

"Well, Son, Let's Get Down to Business. I See You're Wise
All Right to the Value of that Pit"

Bees are a Profitable Side Line

The Tractor Will do the Work of Five Men and Five Teams

Ditch Digging by Dynamite

One-Half the Herd

The Electric Milker

Comfortable Sanitary Stalls

Small, Self-Loading, Kerosene Driven, Concrete Mixers

Every Boy that Ran Away from the Farm and Many that are
Still There can Tell of the Days Wasted on Repairs to
Wooden Fences and Cleaning Out Fence Rows

Extra Profits are not the Only Things a Farmer Gets from a Herd
of Well Bred Dairy Cows

Good Seed Well Planted Lays the Foundation for a Profitable
Crop

A Well-Managed Flock of Poultry Will Return Good Profits

The Side Delivery Rake Fluffs up the Hay and Lets the Sun
do Its Work Quickly

The Self-Loader Makes Possible the Quick Storage of Properly
Cured Hay and Saves Tons of Man-Lifting Power

The Electric-Driven Laundry

Well-Built Concrete Roads Bring the Markets and Your Neighbors
Nearer

Transferring the Green Corn Crop from Field to Silo




I.

THE OLD HOMESTEAD


The late afternoon sun shone full upon a boy who was perched on the
top of an old rail fence forming the dividing line between the farm
that spread out before him and the one over which he had just passed.

It was early March. The keen wind as it whirled past him, whipping the
branches of the tree together and carrying away clouds of dried leaves
from behind the fence rows, penetrated the thin clothes he wore--but
instead of making him shiver, it seemed only to add to his pleasure,
for he removed his cap and ran his fingers through his damp hair.

The boy was slender and scarcely looked the eighteen years to which he
laid claim. He had curly sandy hair, a freckled face and penetrating
blue eyes. His clothes were new, but of rather poor material and ill-
fitting, scarcely protecting him from the cutting wind. Because of his
short legs and arms, his coat sleeves and trousers, cut for the
average boy, were too long for him and were much wrinkled.

He had climbed the last and steepest hill lying between the town and
his grandfather's farm--the ancestral home of the Williams family,
which was now, for a time at least, to be his home. Since early
morning he had bumped over the rough frozen roads between his home in
a distant village and the county seat, which was situated some two
miles to the west, and from which he had just walked.

He had expected to find his grandfather or his Uncle Joe waiting for
him; in this he was disappointed, and as the sun was getting along
toward mid-afternoon, he had picked up his worn suitcase and set off
through the town by a route that he knew would bring him to a short-
cut over the hills.

Despite the wind, he sat for some minutes, cap in hand, while he
looked out over the familiar scenes. There was not one foot of ground
in the one hundred and sixty acre farm that spread out fan-shape
before him which was not familiar. Here he had spent many happy
vacations in summers past. The last two years he had attended the
State College, taking the course in agriculture, and had worked in a
grocery store in the village during the summer vacations, but this
work had been distasteful to him--he missed the freedom of outdoor
life, especially the birds and animals so plentiful on the farm. So
this year, as his father could not afford to have him complete the
course, he had asked permission to go on a farm. His two years in the
State College had opened his eyes to modern methods of farming and the
use of Portland cement for farm buildings, and he wanted a chance to
try them out.

His father had hesitated at first in giving his consent, not because
he did not wish him to be in the open country, but because he felt,
now that he had reached the age of eighteen, he should be able to earn
money and direct his attention toward permanent employment, and he
could not think of farming as a business with so many other
opportunities at hand. A letter from his Uncle Joe, saying that he had
purchased the old farm, and would like to have Bob help him with the
work on his newly acquired property, had settled the matter, and, as
his uncle was anxious to make an early start, he had left home at
once.

He could not help noticing, as he gazed at the panorama before him,
the dilapidated appearance of the buildings and tumbled-down fences
half hidden by rank growths that confronted him on every side, but
this, for the moment, was of passing interest.

Across the valley to the east, in the twenty-five acres of woods, he
had once found the nest of a great white owl, and there on "Old Round
Top," as the steep hill directly opposite him was called, they had
overturned a wagon-load of hay one summer with him on top. He even
remembered the thrill he had received as he went flying through the
air, and how they had all laughed when he landed unhurt on a hay cock
some distance down the hill, just clear of the overturned wagon. Then
in the valley, at the foot of the hill, stood the old cider mill where
neighbors for miles around would bring their apples in the late summer
for cider-making. Here, straw in mouth, he and the neighbors' boys lay
prone on their stomachs on the great beams and sucked their fill of
the freshly squeezed cider as it flowed down the smooth grooves in the
planks to the waiting barrels below.

Beyond the cider mill was the old orchard, with its Rainbow and Sheep-
nose apple trees; then the garden in one corner of which grew black
currants and yellow raspberry bushes; and near by the low red brick
smoke-house, from which many a piece of dried beef had been slyly
removed to stay his hunger between meals.

Just beyond was the white farmhouse, nestling among the apple trees,
the front to the west and facing on the lane that led up to a farm
above. The house had a one-story ell on the end toward him, containing
the kitchen and pantry--this ell projected back almost to the
smokehouse. On the opposite side, but hidden from his view, there was
a wide porch running the full length of house and ell, and in the
angle formed by the porch, stood the well with its home-made pump.

The water from this well, he recalled, had a peculiar mineral taste,
with a strong flavor of sulphur--a taste he did not like. He had never
been so tired that he would not go to the spring up on the side of
"Old Round Top" for a pail of water, rather than drink from this well.
Back of the house, but within the enclosure formed by the picket
fence, was the wood and tool shed--while just beyond stood the old-
fashioned bank barn and other farm buildings. There was a short steep
hill just beyond the barn, down which the lane wound to a mill pond
below. An old sawmill with an undershot water-wheel stood at the
extreme south-east corner of the farm, diagonally opposite.

[Illustration with caption: THE OLD HOMESTEAD] Of all the places on
which his gaze rested, this mill and pond held the most treasured
recollections. It was in this pond ten years ago his father had taught
him to swim. Here, too, the neighboring farmers brought their sheep
each spring to be washed--always a holiday and frolic for the boys.

Like many other farms in this section of Western Pennsylvania, the
buildings were set so that the barn stood between the house and the
main road, making the approach to the house past the barn and through
the barnyard. For the first time, this awkward arrangement was
apparent to him; he wondered why the buildings had been thus located,
and facing northwest.

He replaced his cap, swung his suitcase over the fence, jumped down to
the frozen ground and set off down the hill. As he trudged along,
picking his way over the rough ground, the parting words of his father
came to him: "Make yourself useful, Bob, and your Uncle Joe, I'm sure,
will pay you all you're worth, and while I'd rather have you become a
merchant, still if you find you like the farm, you may stay with your
Uncle Joe." It was not so much the prospect of making money as the
chance of being in the open air among the things that he loved that
caused him to whistle a lively tune as he crossed the fields toward
the house.

The one over which he was now passing, he observed, had been planted
in winter wheat, and that just beyond, at the edge of the meadow, was
the young orchard well grown and badly in need of pruning. The route
he had taken soon brought him out into the lane at the foot of the
hill, near the cider mill, where he stopped to drink of the cool sap
that flowed into a large tin pail, from one of the sugar-maple trees
under whose branches the mill stood. How good it tasted to the thirsty
boy, as he drank slowly from a long-handled dipper that someone had
conveniently left hanging on the tree. When he had quenched his
thirst, he picked up his suitcase again, resting it on one shoulder,
and continued up the lane to the house.

"Hello, grandma!" he shouted, as he dropped his luggage on the porch
and hurried forward to meet her as she emerged from the kitchen door,
a steaming kettle of vegetables in her hand.

"Why, Bob, where'd you come from?" she exclaimed, setting the kettle
down and kissing him.

"I looked for grandfather and Uncle Joe when I got off the bus in
town, but I couldn't see them anywhere, so I walked out," he replied.

"Why, I'm sure they expected to meet you, Bob," she replied, "but the
roads are so rough, I suppose they were late. They took some grain to
the mill and would have to wait for it to be ground, and they may have
been delayed there--but you haven't told me yet how all the folks
are."

"Oh, they're all pretty well," he replied; "but tell me, when is Uncle
Joe to be married?"

"Some time in April, I believe," she replied. "Do you know you're to
be his chore boy this summer?"

"Yes, father told me--it will be lots of fun. Just think--no more
working all cooped up in a store like the last two summers," he
replied enthusiastically.

"But it won't be all fun, you know, Bob. Your Uncle Joe has bought the
farm, although it's not all paid for yet, and I imagine he'll keep you
pretty busy--if I know Joe," she added.

"Let me get you some water, grandma," he said a moment later, seeing
her pick up the tin water-pail; "I'll start right in now and get my
hand in," he laughed.

"You always were a hustler, Bob, even if you don't grow very fast,"
she said, looking at his over-large clothes, as he left the kitchen.

"I hope your Uncle Joe will remember that you're not grown and can't
do a man's work, even if you're willing to try," she said on his
return, as she watched him set the pail of water on the kitchen table.

"Why, I'm eighteen now, grandma, and weigh one hundred and ten
pounds," he answered stoutly.

"Well, this is a big farm, Bob, and it's gotten pretty well run down
in the last few years with your Uncle Joe out West and your
grandfather feeling too poorly to do much more than look after the
crops," she said.

"Are there big fortunes to be found in the West, grandma?" he asked a
moment later.

"No bigger than right here, Bob," she replied. "It's only a matter of
work, and I'm beginning to believe that after all it is as much a
matter of managing properly as working hard. Do you know that your
grandfather and I are going to move to town as soon as your Uncle Joe
gets married?"

"Why, no, I didn't--who'll look after things here when you go away?"
asked Bob.

"Oh, your new aunt will see to that," she replied. "I hope you'll like
her, Bob."

"Who is she and what does she look like?" he inquired with boyish
eagerness.

"She used to be a school teacher and lived with us while she taught
our school," she replied; "that's how your Uncle Joe met her. She has
plenty of good looks--too many, I sometimes think, for a farmer's
wife--and she is a real New England Yankee woman, who doesn't know how
to milk cows."

"How could any one be too good-looking to be a farmer's wife,
grandma?" laughed Bob. "Why should good looks keep her from being
successful?"

"Well, you see, Bob, nice white hands are generally spoiled by rough
work," said the old lady.

"But why will she have to do the rough work when she comes here?"
persisted Bob.

"Oh, I guess she won't have any to do--at least, that's what your
Uncle Joe says," replied his grandmother with a haughty toss of her
head. "That's what he's got you down on the farm for."

"Oh," said Bob, dryly, "and so that's why he was so extremely anxious
for me to come."

"Yes, that's why, Bob--you might as well know sooner as later, that
you're going to be a pretty busy boy this summer. Your Uncle Joe is so
big and strong that he never gets tired and doesn't know when to quit,
and he expects every one else to work just as hard and as long as he
does. Besides," she added, "I don't think he'll want HIS wife to spoil
her nice white hands."

"What's her name?" inquired Bob, not in the least worried by his
grandmother's gloomy predictions.

"Betsy Atwood--but your uncle calls her Bettie," replied his
grandmother.

"Aunt Bettie," repeated Bob. "A pretty name!"

"H'm!" sniffed his grandmother. "I'm certainly glad you like it, and I
hope you'll like her as well--it will help to make the work seem
easier to you."

"Why, there's grandfather and Uncle Joe now," said Bob a moment later,
as he glanced through the kitchen window toward the barn, and catching
up his cap he rushed out to greet them.

Joe Williams was a typical farmer, tall, deep-chested and straight as
an arrow. He stood six feet in his stockings and weighed two hundred
and ten pounds, and could toss a barrel of salt on the tailboard of a
wagon without losing his happy smile. He was twenty-seven years old,
and there was not a farmer in the county who could beat him at feats
of strength or endurance, and few indeed who could keep pace with him.
He had black hair and blue eyes. Books had little attraction for him--
he loved to be in the open, for which his great size and strength
seemed to fit him. He had received little education beyond the country
school, unless could be counted the two years he had spent working on
farms in the great West, where he probably would have stayed had it
not been for the brown eyes of Bettie Atwood and an offer from his
father, now old and failing in health, to sell him the old place at
his own terms.

"Hello, Bob!" he called as his nephew came forward, "sorry we missed
you. The bus driver said you'd left on foot for the farm when you
didn't see us around. How've you been lately?"

"Oh, I'm all right," replied Bob.

"Hello, grandfather!" he called, as he went round to the side of the
wagon to greet his grandfather.

"You don't seem to grow much, Bob," he laughed, as he shook hands.
"Cooped up too much in that grocery store--you need the open air of
the country to stretch you out. Just look at your Uncle Joe there--see
what the country has done for him."

"Oh, I'll grow all right, grandfather. I like the country and the
open-air life, too, and father says I may take up farming work if I
want to."

The team was soon put away, and shortly after supper Bob, too sleepy
to keep his eyes open, went to bed.




II

A DAY'S WORK


"Bob! Bob! Time to get up and do your chores."

The sleepy boy rolled over, rubbed his eyes and sat up, trying to
remember where he was and who was calling him; then he recognized the
voice of his uncle, and jumped quickly out of bed.

"All right, Uncle Joe, I'm coming," he answered, as he felt around in
the dark for his clothes, for he had neglected to provide himself with
matches to light the oil lamp that stood near by on the dresser.

His clothes were simple, and getting up before dawn was no new
experience for him. A few moments later he hurried down to the
kitchen, where his uncle, who had just finished stirring the kitchen
fire, was filling the tea-kettle.

"Well!--are you up for all day, Bob?" he inquired cheerily.

"I will be as soon as I get awake," he answered, as he started for the
rain barrel for water to wash.

As the water in the well was hard, rain water was used for washing,
except in winter, when the barrels were frozen solidly. The early
spring rains had filled the barrels again, but as the night had been
cold, ice had frozen over the top. His uncle had been to the barrel
ahead of him and broken the ice, so he dipped up the basin full of
water, and placing it on a bench on the porch, washed his face and
hands.

Above the wash bench, summer and winter, hung the roller towel, and
near by the mirror and family horn comb. In the dark the mirror was of
doubtful use, but with a few well-directed strokes of the comb he
managed to get a semblance, at least, of neatness to his hair. He
shivered a little as he finished--just as his uncle appeared, milk
pails and lantern in hand.

"I want you to do the milking from now on, Bob, for it's not the kind
of work a woman should do," said his uncle, and handing him the pails,
they started for the barn.

"You're right, Uncle Joe," replied Bob. "I always milked our cow at
home so mother wouldn't have to do it; besides, it doesn't take so
very long."

Bob had been taught to take good care of the family cow--a well-bred
Guernsey, whose stable had a good cement floor and was neatly
whitewashed. Once or twice a week he would curry-comb and brush her
from nose to tail. Nothing gave him greater pride than to have his
father bring some one unexpectedly into the stable to look at his
charge and comment on the clean manner in which both stable and cow
were kept. His mother sold the milk they did not need for their own
use, and had no trouble in getting two cents a quart more than the
regular price--partly on account of the cow being so well bred and
giving rich milk, but principally on account of the reputation the
clean stable had made in the village.

The cow barn that Bob now entered was built under a portion of the
main barn, adjacent to the thrashing floor, and was dark, even in the
daylight. The earthen floor was foul with neglect. The cows, instead
of being secured in separate stalls with stanchions, were chained up
in a row to a long, old-fashioned manger.

Upon entering, Bob's uncle hung up the lantern; then, seeing Bob look
around and hesitate, asked:

"What are you looking for, Bob?"

"I was looking for a fork to clean the stable. I always clean the
stable and brush off the cow at home before milking," he replied.

"Well, I guess you're a little late to start that here," laughed his
uncle. "Never mind the floor; we'll back the wagon in here after
breakfast and give it a good cleaning."

"All right, Uncle Joe; but where's the brush?" asked Bob.

"Brush! What brush?" asked his uncle.

"Why, don't you brush off the cows each morning before you milk them?"
asked Bob. "Father always insisted that I brush Gurney each morning."

"Well, your father's not a farmer and you've only one cow, while we
have eight, and, besides, I've lots of other work to do without curry-
combing cows," replied his uncle in a sarcastic tone, angered at Bob's
reference to his father's greater knowledge of farm work.

"Better hurry up with your milking, Bob, while I feed the horses," he
added, as he left him staring at the cows.

He could not remember ever having seen such dirty cows or so dirty a
stable before. Then he suddenly thought that he had always visited the
farm in the summer time, when the cattle were kept in the fields and
milked in the open barn yard.

He finished the milking as best he could, and was not surprised to
find that instead of getting forty quarts from the eight cows, he
received only fifteen quarts--about three times as much as he got from
Gurney alone. He now remembered the answer he once heard his father
give a visitor at Gurney's stable.

"But, Mr. Williams," the visitor had said, "a purebred cow must be
considerably more expensive in upkeep than an ordinary one."

"That's where you're mistaken," his father had replied, "for a well-
bred cow eats no more than a common one--in fact, Gurney eats less,
and the difference in the amount and quality of the milk soon pays for
the difference in the first cost. Then, there's the pleasure that Bob
gets out of the care he gives to an animal that is worth while, and
assuredly that's something not to be lightly lost sight of."

Dawn was breaking when Bob finished. On the way to the house he met
his uncle coming out of the yard, a huge pail of swill for the pigs in
each hand.

"Thought I'd feed the pigs for you this morning," he said, as Bob set
down his milk pails and held the gate open for his uncle to pass
through. "It will take you a day or two to get your hand in," he
added.

Bob made no reply, but he noticed the swill was full of broken ice,
like the rain barrel from which he had taken the water to wash that
morning, and he was wondering how much good a cold breakfast like that
would do even for a pig.

He carried the milk pails into the kitchen, where he found his
grandmother busy preparing breakfast. "Shall I take the milk to the
cellar?" he asked, as he set the pails on the floor to rest his arms.

"No, thank you, Bob; I usually strain it here in the kitchen before
taking it down," she replied; "but you may feed the calves--that's
their warm milk there by the stove. You'll find four of them in the
orchard, back of the smokehouse. Divide the milk among them, and hurry
back to breakfast."

Bob disappeared with the milk, but was back in a few minutes. The tin
wash basin was put into service again--this time hot water from the
boiling tea kettle took the chill off, and in a few minutes, he joined
his uncle who, having already washed, had that moment seated himself
at the breakfast table.

"Will you feed the chickens for me, Bob?" asked his grandmother, as he
rose from the table after breakfast. "You'll find some shell corn in a
feed box on the thrashing floor. Give them two measures."

"Come around to the wagon shed when you get through with feeding the
chickens, Bob," called his uncle, as he started for the barn. "I'll
get the team and we'll clean out the cow stable to-day."

Bob filled the small wooden box he found in the feed bin, then
stepping out into the barnyard, he called the chickens around him. He
could not help observing what a nondescript lot of chickens they were
--not a purebred among them; besides, he noticed many were old, and
some had frozen feet and combs. No wonder, he thought, as he glanced
at the poorly built hen house that faced the east instead of south--a
lean-to built against the side of the barn, with only one small
window, and that one on the north end, while the cracks between the
upright boards, of which the coop was constructed, were not even
covered by strips.

With these fowls he contrasted his own prize-winning white leghorns,
with their well-built and ventilated pen, with its two large windows
to the south. He wondered how long they would have averaged four eggs
a day for the eight hens through the entire winter, if he had fed them
with only cold grain instead of carefully prepared feed, and had kept
them in such a cheerless home. No wonder his grandmother, who got the
money from the sale of the eggs, said chickens didn't pay, and that
the few eggs the hens did lay in the winter were usually frozen before
they could be collected.

He now joined his uncle and they began the annual cleaning of the cow
stable and barnyard. The stable was not hard work, although the long
corn stalks that were tramped deep into the floor were troublesome and
required much labor to pry loose. They finished the cleaning of the
cow stable by noon, but when they started on the barnyard in the
afternoon they found it was frozen almost solid, so they made slow
headway and Bob's arms and back ached from the unaccustomed heavy
work.

"When shall I quit to do the milking?" he inquired, as he noticed the
sun getting low.

"Oh, we'll be knocking off pretty soon," was his uncle's indefinite
answer.

It was nearly six o'clock and getting dark when his uncle finally
decided they had done enough work for one day.

"Guess you'd better hustle, Bob," he said. "I didn't notice it was so
late. Your grandmother will wait supper for you."

Bob jumped down stiffly from the seat of the wagon and, after cleaning
his shoes, went to the house, as his uncle had directed, and washed
up.

"Are you tired?" asked his grandmother, as he came into the kitchen
where she was busy cooking by lamp light. "Your Uncle Joe's starting
right in to have you do all the work on the farm in a day; he should
have let you stop an hour ago to do the milking."

Bob made no reply. He took his pails and lantern and started for the
barn. His hands were stiff and blistered from using the fork all day,
and it was with difficulty that he finished his task in the ill-
smelling and badly ventilated barn. His back ached, too, as he carried
the pails to the house.

"Why were you so long?" asked his uncle impatiently, as Bob entered.
"Your grandmother wouldn't let us eat till you came in, so I fed the
calves and pigs for you while we were waiting."

"At home, Uncle Joe," replied Bob, as they seated themselves at the
table, "we always milk at five o'clock and don't let anything else
interfere with it. Father says a cow should be milked early and
regularly."

"Well, Bob, your father's not a farmer, and if he wants you to quit in
the middle of the afternoon to milk your cow, you can do so, but we'll
milk ours after the day's work's done," was the stern answer.

"Probably that's the reason Gurney gives nearly as much milk as any
three of yours," replied Bob quietly, to which remark his uncle made
no reply.




III

A RAINY DAY


"Bob," said his uncle one rainy Saturday morning, a week later, "it's
such a bad day we can't do anything outdoors, so we'd better sharpen
up the tools; there's a lot of them that need grinding."

"All right," said Bob, and he got a can of water for the grindstone--
an ancient model, turned by hand.

His uncle gathered up the tools and piled them beside the stone. There
were two double-bitted axes and one pole axe, two brush hooks, three
mowing scythes, a hatchet, a meat cleaver, half a dozen knives, both
long and short--to say nothing of a drawing knife, some chisels and
planes, which were added to the pile as an afterthought.

Bob looked dubiously at the tools as his uncle deposited them near at
hand.

"Are we going to sharpen them all, Uncle Joe?" he inquired, as he took
hold of the handle and set the stone turning.

"Oh, this is only a short job," laughed his uncle, as he picked up a
dull axe and pressed the bit so heavily against the stone that it
stopped.

"Why, what's the matter, Bob--not tired before you get started, are
you?" he laughed.

Bob made no reply. He needed all his strength to turn the stone. After
a few minutes' work against his uncle's weight, he was compelled to
quit.

"Can't we oil or grease it up or do something to make it turn easier,
Uncle Joe?" he asked as he straightened up.

"Bah, who ever heard of oiling a grindstone?" answered his uncle,
throwing some water on the bearings, which caused a lot of rust to
work out at the ends.

"I guess you'd like to go fishing to-day, instead of working?" he
observed.

"No, Uncle Joe, I'm willing to work," replied Bob, "but you don't know
how hard this old stone turns."

"Oh, I don't, don't I?" said his uncle. "Well, I turned this stone,
Bob, before you were born, and your father turned it before me."

"And you never put any oil or grease on it all that time?" inquired
Bob.

"Of course not," said his uncle, "only elbow grease. We boys always
had enough of that to keep the stone running in those days," he
continued with a sarcastic smile.

"Well, there might have been an excuse in those days, Uncle Joe, for
using a hand-power grindstone, but there certainly is none in these
days, with water power, electricity and gasoline," he added, between
breaths, as he began tugging away again at the handle.

"If you wouldn't waste your energy talking nonsense and turn faster,
we would get done sooner," said his uncle bearing down harder than
ever.

Bob stopped turning and stood up as straight as his aching back would
allow him, and looking his uncle square in the eyes, said:

"Suppose you turn a while, Uncle Joe, and I'll hold the axe."

"No, you just keep on turning--you don't know how to grind an axe,"
replied his uncle; "besides, that's the boy's job."

"Perhaps you could teach me how it's done, while you're turning," said
Bob, not offering to continue.

"That's only fair, Joe," said his grandfather, coming up suddenly
behind them and overhearing what was said. "The old stone does seem to
turn harder than ever these days."

"Well, I'll show you how easy it turns," said his uncle, starting the
stone spinning, but looked up quickly a moment later as it suddenly
slowed down to a dead stop, for his father, instead of Bob, was
holding the axe against it.

"Go on, Joe; don't stop; it's only a boy's job," he laughed, as he
bore down so hard on the axe that the stone could not be started.

"Where are you going, Bob?" asked his uncle, as Bob started in the
direction of the barn.

"I'm going to the wagon shed, Uncle Joe, to get some axle grease and
see if we can't make the stone turn easier."

The metal plates covering the bearings were removed, and the caked
rust pried out from between the rollers, for the stone had been
mounted on small cast-iron wheels or rollers, but the wheels had been
allowed to become rusted and finally had ceased to revolve.

When the rust had all been cleaned out and the wheels removed and
cleaned, they were well greased and replaced.

"Now try it, Bob," said his grandfather, smiling; "it's a poor rain
that doesn't bring some good."

The stone now spun around easily in the hands of the willing boy, and
by noon all the tools had been ground, including some additional ones
that his grandfather, seeing the work going so fast, had added to the
pile. When all were finished, Bob wiped them off with a greasy rag,
while his grandfather stood watching him keenly.

"You'll make a good farmer some day, Bob," he said a little later,
"for I see you use your head as well as your muscle. All my life I've
been grinding farm tools, but I never once greased them to keep them
from getting rusty, and they were mostly rusty, too, when I wanted to
use them," he added with a dry smile.

"How'd you like to have the afternoon off, Bob, to fish?" asked his
uncle after dinner, looking at the rain.

"Fine, Uncle Joe! Perhaps I could catch a mess for supper," the boy
replied, and without waiting for any further suggestions started for
the woodshed to get his rod and line.

He was soon sitting on the end of the log carriage under the shelter
of the saw-mill roof, his line dangling into the water of the forebay,
waiting for a bite. He had been seated only a few moments when his
attention was attracted by a small automobile bouncing over the deep-
rutted road, a few yards to the south of the mill. When it got nearly
opposite, one of the rear tires, with a loud report, blew out, and it
came to a sudden stop. Two men got out of the car, but after looking
up at the sky decided to wait until the shower was over before making
the repairs. So, turning up their coat collars, they ran over to the
shelter of the mill.

They did not seem to notice Bob as they came up a plank at the
opposite end, but sat down on a log with their back to him. As they
seated themselves, one of the men took out his cigar case and passed
it to the other.

"We'd better be careful about smoking in a saw mill, John, don't you
think?" remarked the other, as he hesitated to take the proffered
cigar.

"Oh, that's all right, Al," said his friend. "Just be careful where
you throw the match."

"This must be a pretty old mill, John," said the one called "Al," a
few moments later, as, his cigar lighted, he gazed around at the
structure.

"Well, it's been here for some time, that's sure," his friend replied.

"Don't they ever use it any more? Don't look as though they have cut
any lumber here in years," remarked Al.

"No, the timber's pretty well cut down around here, Al, and one
doesn't haul it very far in these days of portable steam mills. In the
old days, you know, they hauled the tree to the mill; nowadays, they
take the mill to the tree. It's the modern idea."

"But I should think they would use the power for other things," his
friend persisted. "For one thing, the water would be able to run a
small generator and supply the farm with electric lights."

"Electric light! Ha! Ha! Joe Williams using electric lights on his
farm--that's a good one, Al."

"Well, why not?" demanded his friend. "Electricity is not a new thing,
even in the country, and there certainly are enough uses for power on
a farm that would pay for a plant in a very short time."

"Yes, but you don't know Joe Williams, Al," persisted his friend.

"Well, who is he, then, that he never heard of electricity?" demanded
Al.

"Oh, he's heard of electricity all right; but you see he's not
progressive--he has no 'git up and git,' as they say around here. Of
course, he expects to find electric lights and concrete sidewalks in
town, but electric lights on his farm and good roads from here to town
would never enter his head," was the reply.

"Has he always lived here? Doesn't he ever get far enough away from
home to know what the rest of the world is doing, or is he just plain
lazy?" asked his friend.

"Neither, Al. In fact, he spent two years on the big farms in the
West, and I had hoped he would wake up our farmers with new ideas when
he came back and bought the old homestead. But I've been disappointed.
He's one of those powerful men, who thinks that farming is a matter of
physical strength rather than thoughtful planning. He doesn't seem to
see the advantage of headwork. True, it's going to take a lot of hard
work to redeem this old place with its dilapidated buildings and
broken-down fences, but headwork will help a lot. Why, do you know,
Al, the acreage wasted by rail fences on this farm alone would raise
enough corn each year to send a boy to college."

"Yes, and what's more," he continued, "here's an old pond full of the
richest soil in the whole county--soil that's been washed down from
the fertile fields for years--to say nothing of the drainage from
three big barns; and what does it produce?--nothing. Do you know, if I
owned this farm, I'd open the gates and let the water out, put in some
drain tile and plant this bottom land in corn. Why, when that corn got
ripe, you couldn't find a ladder long enough in the county to reach up
to the ears, the stalks would grow so high."

"Well, that would be some tall corn, John," laughed his friend, "but
I've no doubt it's just as you say--this bottom would raise fine corn.
Speaking of that, you ought to see some of the corn I've seen in the
bottom lands out in Illinois and Iowa, But what about electricity if
you do away with the dam?"

"Do you see those two beech trees down there, near the fence where the
brook cuts in between the two steep banks?" asked John pointing.

"Yes, I do," said his friend.

"Well, do you notice how the banks approach each other at that point?
A thirty-or forty-foot dam built across there would back up the water
over an acre or two of ground in there--that land is unfit for
anything else--and it would give them all the water they'd need for
cutting ice in the winter and swimming in the summer; and as for
electricity, a little direct-connection unit run by gasoline and
setting in one corner of the garage, where it would be near at hand,
would do the trick nicely. You know, Al," he continued, "the trouble
with our farmers is they don't manage right. Now take Joe Williams
here for an example. Here's wasted water power; he's still turning the
old grind-stone by hand, and probably will all his life, unless
someone wakes him up. Then here's this good bottom land wasted. Why,
it was only last week he came in to see me at the bank to borrow a
thousand dollars--said he was going to get married and needed some
money to set himself up in housekeeping, as he's put all his money
into buying the farm. Said he's going to marry a woman who's used to a
little better than farm life, and, now that he's got his brother's boy
helping him, he would like to put on another team."

"Did you loan him the money, John?" asked his friend, keenly
interested.

"No, I didn't, Al. I told him I'd think it over. In fact, it was to
look things over that I came out here to-day," he replied.

"I don't know whether I mentioned to you, John," remarked his friend,
"but the Farmers' Mutual Life Insurance Company, which I represent, is
seeking all the farm loans they can find. We consider them the best
loans to-day."

"How's that, Al?" asked the banker.

"Well, it's like this. You loan a farmer a thousand dollars and in
nearly every case the money goes to improve the land, hence makes the
value that much greater. Then a wide-awake farmer generally wakes up
his neighbors and the value of all the farms goes up, which naturally
makes our risk less. We don't care how bad a farm may be run down,
John, if the farmer is a live one--one who has the 'git up and git,'
as you say--we'll advance him any reasonable amount of money to help
him. And that, by the way, brings me around to tell you why I dropped
off to see you this morning. We want to place some of our surplus
funds in farm loans in your section and would like to have your bank
handle them for us."

"Why, Al, that's fine. I've a small policy myself in your company, and
it's certainly good of you to pick out the First National to place
these loans. I'll be a real booster for your company now.

"But referring to wasted opportunities, Al, do you see that sand and
gravel pit over there on the other side of the pond? There's enough
sand and gravel there, I've no doubt, to supply this entire county
with concrete fence posts, silos, barns and all manner of buildings,
to say nothing of building fine concrete roads throughout the whole
county. And I'll tell you something more: Joe Williams hasn't waked up
to the fact that there's a railroad coming through about three miles
below his farm that will require thousands of yards of sand and gravel
for concrete bridges, and that this is the only sand and gravel pit
within a reasonable haul that's worth while. Why, do you know, Al, for
years and years they've been letting people drive in here and haul
away sand and gravel free of charge.

"You don't say!" exclaimed his friend.

"Yes, but speaking of concrete, Al, just think what a saving in
horseflesh a twenty-foot smooth concrete road all the way from here to
town would mean to these farmers--recent tests with a three-ton auto
truck show that while it could make only 3.6 miles per hour over dirt
roads, it could make twelve miles per hour over unsurfaced concrete
roads, which would represent in the United States a saving of nearly
two and one-half million dollars on auto-truck hauling alone, to say
nothing of horse-drawn vehicles--just think of it, Al. But there's
that old dirt road, same as it's been for years, hub deep with mud in
spring and winter, and so dusty in summer that there is no pleasure in
driving over it, and a dead loss in both time and money every time a
farmer drives over it."

"It's surely the roughest road I've ever traveled on, John," laughed
his friend, "and I've no doubt what you say is right. If farmers would
only take to using lead pencils and figure a little they would soon
discover where their losses are."

"You know the old way of repairing roads, Al. They dig the dirt out of
the gutters in the springtime and fill up the rut holes, and then the
next spring do the same thing over again, from 'generation to
generation,' as the good Book says. I'm satisfied myself," he
continued, "that our county will never go ahead until we begin putting
down good roads. I was telling our Commissioners only yesterday that
the First National Bank would guarantee the bond issue for any road-
building work they would undertake in any part of the county."

The two men sat in silence for a time, looking out at the rain. Then
they got up and started to walk to the other end of the mill.

"Why, hello, boy! Fishing?" remarked Al, as he noticed Bob for the
first time.

"Yes," replied Bob.

"Catching anything, are you?" asked the banker.

"Well, you never can tell what you can catch on a rainy day," the boy
replied slowly. "Uncle Joe greased the grindstone to-day for the first
time in its history."

"You don't say!" laughed the banker; "who put him up to that, I'd like
to know?"

Bob only grinned and remained silent.

"Well, it looks as though the rain were going to pass over," said the
banker a few minutes later, as he looked out at his stranded
automobile.

"What's your name, young man?" inquired the insurance man.

"Bob Williams," he replied.

"Oh, then you are Billy Williams' son, who's working here this
summer," said the banker. "Well, how does it happen that you're
fishing instead of working to-day, I'd like to know? Couldn't your
Uncle Joe find anything for you to do?"

"Yes, he did; but we greased the grindstone and got through at noon,"
Bob replied smiling.

"Well, he was square in letting you have the afternoon off after you
showed him how to save it," the banker replied. "Some time, Bob, when
you're in town, drop in and see me at the bank, and, by the way, if
you ever catch any turtles, bring them to me. I'll be glad to pay you
fifty cents each for all you can catch. I'm rather fond of a good
snapper."

"What are you going to do now?" inquired the insurance man, seeing Bob
winding up his fishing line.

"Guess I'll go up to the barn and look for some lumber to build a long
ladder," the boy replied grinning.

"Well, so long, Bob," said the insurance man with a smile. "Good luck
to you! I see you've good ears."




IV

DRAINING THE POND


It was quite evident to Bob the next morning that his uncle was
worrying about something; he was not only absent-minded, but he was
short and crusty and found fault with everything that Bob did.

It was Sunday, and after the chores were finished, Bob walked down
back of the barn and stood looking at the pond for quite a while,
pondering over what the banker and insurance man had said. Then he
walked over to the west slope which ran along the side of the small
hill where the house and barn stood and examined the contour of the
ground carefully.

"What are you trying to discover in the hog lot, Bob?" asked his
uncle, suddenly coming up behind him.

Bob's face was very serious, and he looked up at his uncle a moment
before replying.

"I was just wondering how much it would cost to hire a man to grade a
road up the side of this slope and get rid of the steep hill in front
of the barn."

"What an idea!" exclaimed his uncle. "Hire a man, indeed! You must be
crazy. We don't hire any men to work on this farm."

"Oh, yes, you do--you hired me, Uncle Joe."

"Well, but that's different, Bob," said his uncle, half smiling. "You
don't get paid."

"Oh, yes, I do, Uncle Joe. Father said you told him you'd pay me
whatever I was worth to you, and I'm willing to wait till you find
out, but I certainly expect to be paid money for my work."

"Your father shouldn't have told you I'd give you money. Of course,"
he added quickly, seeing Bob's face cloud, "I expect to get you some
new clothes in the fall."

"But father said I'm old enough now to buy my own clothes and that
this year he'd let me do it. You just keep account of how much work
and other things I do for you and pay me what I'm worth," Bob
answered.

"What do you mean about other things?" asked his uncle quickly.

"Well, for instance," said Bob, looking him squarely in the eyes, "you
want to borrow a thousand dollars at the First National Bank and they
haven't told you whether they'd give it to you or not."

"Who told you that?" demanded his uncle coloring.

"I don't care to say," replied Bob, "but it wasn't grandmother or
grandfather," he added quickly, to clear them of any suspicion of
having violated a confidence.

"Of course, they didn't," said his uncle. "They don't know anything
about it."

"I can tell you how you can get all the money you want--enough even to
build a new house and a new barn, with silos, new fences, and other
buildings. Also a concrete road from the house to the main road and
put a bathroom and electric lights in the house, too," Bob added.

"Have you gone crazy?" demanded his uncle, scarcely able to believe
his ears. "What nonsense are you talking this morning?"

"Well, you want to find out how it can be done, don't you?" he asked.

"Well, it won't do any harm to tell me," replied his uncle, suddenly
remembering his approaching marriage and how far his slender purse
would go toward fixing up the place and making it presentable to his
bride.

"Drain the pond and plant it in corn," said Bob triumphantly.

"What's that?" asked his uncle again, not sure he heard correctly.

"Drain the pond and plant it in corn," repeated Bob. "You won't have
to wait till you sell the corn, either, to get the money."

"How's that?" asked his uncle, interested in spite of himself.

"Well, all I can tell you is to do it and the First National Bank will
make the loan."

"Whoever heard of such a thing as planting corn in an old mill pond,"
scoffed his uncle.

"I did," replied Bob smiling.

"Who told you?" demanded his uncle, looking him over from head to
foot, for Bob with his ideas was getting to be more and more of a
puzzle to him every day as he upset the long-established farm
traditions.

"The president of the bank himself," declared Bob. "At least I
overheard him tell another man that he would."

"You overheard John White, president of the First National Bank,
discussing with someone else that I wanted to borrow a thousand
dollars? I don't believe it. John White wouldn't discuss my affairs
with anyone, especially when boys are standing around listening,"
vehemently declared his uncle.

"I wasn't standing around listening," said Bob blushing. "I was
fishing in the pond yesterday and I sat in the mill to get out of the
rain. I was fishing in the forebay, and they came in the mill to wait
until the rain was over and sat down and talked."

"What! They talked about me?" demanded his uncle.

"They talked about you and grandfather and all the other farmers
around here. Said you farmers never used your heads and let your farms
run down, when all you had to do was to show him you had some 'git up
and git' and you could have all the money you wanted."

"Well, if that's so, then why didn't he give it to me when I asked
him?" demanded his uncle.

"That was because he was disappointed in you. You've not yet shown any
'git up and git,'" replied Bob.

"What do you mean by 'git up and git'?" asked his uncle.

"Why, things like draining the pond and making it raise corn instead
of letting it lie there a waste; building a new road up to the barn
that won't be so steep you can't haul a load up or down; building new
wire fences with concrete posts and a new barn with silos, and--"

"Stop!" shouted his enraged uncle. "You're only talking to hear
yourself, Bob, and I'm not sure but you're talking to make fun of me.
I've a good notion to get a buggy whip and whale you for such
impertinence," he declared, his anger suddenly getting the better of
him. "No 'git up and git'! You know yourself I work from before
daylight until long after dark as it is. What does he expect me to
do?"

"Just work from six o'clock in the morning until six at night, then
you can spend the rest of the time planning how to improve the farm."

"Did he say that, Bob?" demanded his uncle, looking down at the
ground.

"Well, not just that way," replied Bob, "but that's what he meant. He
did say, though, he would make the loan if you could show him you knew
how to improve the farm, and he did say that if HE owned the farm the
first thing he'd do would be to drain the pond and plant it in corn.
It was his friend that suggested the electric lights--and he wasn't
joking, either, Uncle Joe," stoutly declared Bob with much
earnestness.

"Come over to the barn, Bob," said his uncle after considering the
matter a moment, "and tell me just what they said."

They went over and sat on the fence on the south side of the barn from
which point of vantage they could see the pond.

Bob now described in detail all that he had overheard, his uncle
interrupting from time to time to ask questions. When he had finished
they sat in silence for quite a while, then his uncle jumped down from
the fence and turning to Bob said:

"Come on, Bob, let's go' down and see how we can drain the old pond.
I'll make a bargain with you now. Your father told you I'd be willing
to pay you what you could earn. Well, that goes, and if you leave it
to me, I'll settle square with you in the fall, but there's one thing
I want you to do and that's to promise me you won't tell a soul about
this matter, and you and I'll make some of them around here sit up and
take notice before we get through."

"I'll promise," said Bob, "if you'll let me make one exception."

"Why, who's that?" asked his uncle, surprised at his answer.

"Aunt Bettie," said Bob.

His uncle was touched by the thought that Bob was not willing to
exclude his new aunt-to-be from participating in what would probably
be her greatest joy--the success of her husband.

"You don't know her yet, Bob," he said.

"No," replied Bob, "but grandmother described her to me and I know I'm
going to like her."

"I'm glad now I didn't go to church this morning, Bob--you've given me
an idea," remarked his uncle, as they walked along the breast of the
dam to the mill. "Well, here's the gate. I guess this is just as good
a time as any to start and they'll hardly consider it working on
Sunday if I open it now--so here goes," and up came the gate, and the
water began rushing out, sending the idle wheel spinning.

They sat in the mill until noon, listening to the dull rumble of the
wheel and watching the water getting lower and lower, while they
debated the best way of planting the bottom.

"I suppose we'd better go up and get our dinner, Bob," said his uncle,
suddenly coming out of a day dream into which he had fallen almost an
hour before.

"After dinner, Uncle Joe, may I come down and look for some turtles
for Mr. White? He said he'd pay me fifty cents apiece for all I could
catch."

"Did he?" replied his uncle. "I'll help you, Bob. We'll bring down a
barrel or two and a couple of rakes and have a regular turtle hunt,"
he laughed. "They can't get out of the sluiceway gate, there's a
wooden grating there."

As soon as they had finished their dinner, they put on some old
clothes, including rubber boots. Then Bob got the water barrels and
two rakes and put them on a stone drag, while his uncle harnessed up
old Frank. They rode down the hill to the pond and near the spillway
they unhitched the horse and tied him to a tree. The water had fallen
so much already that there were little shallow pools scattered all
over the bottom of the pond, and in some of these they could already
see the heads of surprised turtles sticking out. They took their rakes
and waded out to one of these pools. The bottom of the pond was so
soft they sank nearly up to their boot tops. Bob, who was the first to
arrive at the pool, drew his rake across the shallow water and a big
struggling snapping turtle was overturned and dragged out.

"There's a big one, Uncle Joe," he exclaimed, as he drew the turtle
from the water.

"All right, Bob, I've got him," said his uncle, grasping the turtle by
the tail. "Now look for another while I put this one in the barrel."

"Hurry, Uncle Joe; I've a big one here," he called, and his uncle came
splashing back through the mud as fast as he could to secure the
prize.

Two more were gotten from this pool and then they moved on to another.
The second pool contained four, and as soon as they had them out of
the water they dropped their rakes and grasping a tail in each hand
they waded through the mud to the shore.

"Say, Uncle Joe, there must be a lot of 'em in there. I guess Mr.
White will be surprised when he sees them all."

"Why, Bob, you surely won't take them all in at once," said his uncle,
starting to pry something out of the mud that proved to be a turtle
still larger than any they had yet found.

"Why not?" said Bob. "He didn't say bring in one or two--he just said
he'd pay fifty cents each for all I could catch; so I'm going to take
them all at once, before he changes his mind about them. Maybe after
he's eaten three or four he won't be willing to buy any more."

"Three or four, Bob," said his uncle, "why, I really believe we'll get
a barrel full."

"All the better," said Bob, as he scraped out another big one from
behind an old log. "They're in here thick as thieves."

It was nearly sundown when they finished the hunt and by that time
most of the boys in the neighborhood had learned that the water was
being drained from the pond and that a turtle hunt was on and had come
down to see the fun.

They were astonished at the number of turtles they found, for after
giving every boy one, they had two barrels full and eight big turtles
beside.

"How many have you got, Bob?" asked his uncle, as they hitched up the
horse and started for the house.

"Sixty-three, Uncle Joe, counting the big one."

"Why, that'll be over thirty dollars," said his uncle thoughtfully,
"but I told you they were yours, Bob; you suggested the idea and I'll
stick to it."

"Well, it only goes to show," replied Bob, "that Mr. White was right.
We've lots of resources we're neglecting to develop."

When they reached the barnyard they put the turtles in the corn crib
until morning, for they didn't have enough empty water barrels for
them to swim in. They then went into the house and got rid of their
muddy clothes.

"Well, I'm glad I lived long enough to see the old pond drained,"
remarked Bob's grandmother at supper that night. "I always said it was
a great nuisance, as well as a waste of good bottom land--now that
there's no more logs to be sawed. But you shouldn't have done it on
Sunday, Joe; you should have waited until to-morrow."




V

SELLING TURTLES


A little after nine o'clock the following morning, John White,
president of the First National Bank, and his friend, Alfred Dow,
superintendent of agencies of the Farmers' Mutual Life Insurance
Company, of New York City, walked up Sixth Avenue from the banker's
home and turned into Philadelphia Street. They were engaged in earnest
conversation and had reached the bank before they noticed a farm wagon
with a boy perched on the driver's seat, standing near the curb.

"Where do you want me to deliver your turtles, Mr. White?" called the
boy, and the men turned to look at the speaker.

"Why, hello, Bob!" exclaimed the banker. "Did you get me a turtle
already?" Then turning to his friend, he remarked, "I can now give you
that promised turtle dinner, Al. How many did you catch, Bob?" he
asked, coming over to the wagon.

"Sixty-three," replied Bob, "but I kept one for myself."

"What's that you're saying?" asked the astonished banker. "Sixty-three
turtles for me?"

"No, only sixty-two for you, Mr. White; I kept one for myself,"
replied Bob smiling.

"But, Bob, what would I do with sixty-two turtles? I couldn't eat that
many in ten years." "Well, you didn't say you'd eat them," said Bob
continuing to smile. "You only said you'd pay fifty cents each for all
I could catch and bring to you."

"That's right, Bob; he did say that," interrupted Mr. Dow, enjoying
the situation. "I'll back you, Bob. He made a verbal contract with you
for all you could catch. I heard him say so myself."

"But, great guns, Al, what will I do with so many turtles?" asked the
banker, looking hopelessly from one to the other.

"I'll tell you what," said his friend still laughing; "our company's
going to give a dinner in Pittsburgh day after tomorrow to our Western
Pennsylvania agents. I've been looking for a novelty for the dinner
and this will do fine. We'll go into the bank and call up the Fort
Henry Hotel and talk with the manager. We'll sell him the turtles and
you come down and have dinner with us and meet our men."

They were gone about twenty minutes, and both were laughing when they
returned.

"You win, Bob," said the banker.

"All right," laughed the happy boy. "Where do you want them delivered
and who'll count them?"

"Take them over to the express office, and I'll take your word for the
count, Bob. Tell them I'll send over the shipping directions later."

"How about the grain sacks?" asked Bob. "The turtles are mine, but the
grain sacks belong to Uncle Joe, and I'll have to charge you extra for
them unless you guarantee that they'll be returned."

"I'll guarantee to have them returned," said the banker, "but tell me,
Bob, how in the world did you catch sixty-three turtles since Saturday
afternoon?"

"Uncle Joe drained the pond yesterday," replied Bob, smiling back at
them as he started for the express office.

A half hour later he walked into the bank and stepping up to the
cashier's window asked for the president.

"He's in a conference in the directors' room," replied the cashier.
"Are you Bob Williams?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Come this way," he said. "The president left word to have you shown
in as soon as you returned. Turtles seem to be biting pretty good this
weather," he laughed, as he conducted him to a small room in the rear
of the bank.

Bob had never had much to do with banks; indeed, he could count on the
fingers of one hand all the times he had ever been inside of one, and
as to a directors' private room, he did not even know there was such a
place, let alone ever having been in one. It was not to be wondered at
then that he was embarrassed when he entered the room a moment later
and saw the president and his friend seated in comfortable leather
chairs before a large mahogany table.

"Back already, Bob?" asked the banker. "I don't suppose you thought to
inquire how much the express charges will be on those turtles to
Pittsburgh?"

"Yes, I did. They weighed 378 pounds, and the rate is 75 cents per
hundred pounds--that makes $2.63," he replied, drawing a small
notebook from his pocket and consulting a memorandum he had made.

"Do you always figure out things?" asked the banker, apparently much
interested that Bob had taken the trouble to find out the rate and
figure the cost of the expressage to Pittsburgh.

"I do most always," he answered. "I learned to do that selling
chickens and keeping account of the milk Gurney gives."

"Don't you keep a record of the milk all your cows give?" asked Mr.
Dow.

"Oh, Gurney is our cow at home--not one of Uncle Joe's cows. Gurney's
a purebred with a pedigree," he declared proudly.

"When are you going to start keeping a record of the cows on the farm,
Bob?" asked the banker.

"I don't know," replied Bob. "Uncle Joe don't believe in it yet. He
thinks it's a waste of time, and he always laughs when I tell him that
it is the only way to find out if a cow's worth her keep, but," he
added smiling, "he drained the pond and he didn't believe in that two
days ago."

"I suppose you want the money for the turtles, Bob," said the banker,
getting back to the main subject.

"Well, yes," he said, "but who's buying them, Mr. White--you or Mr.
Dow?"

"Ha, ha," laughed the banker. "This is where you get stuck, Al."

"Why, how's that?" asked his friend.

"Well," said the banker, "I asked the manager of the Fort Henry how
much he'd pay a pound for nice fat turtles. You see, Bob, I reduce
everything to figures, too. Look at this and you'll see why it pays."

Bob took the paper and read "378 pounds turtles, at 30 cents per
pound--$75.60, less $2.63 expressage--$72.97."

"But you haven't deducted anything for your own trouble, Mr. White,"
said Bob, scarcely able to believe his eyes. "Don't you intend to
charge anything for selling them to the hotel? Father says every
business man must make profit on the things he sells, if he wants to
keep in business."

"Well, Bob, I'm not going to charge you a commission on this deal.
I've had too much fun already sticking my friend Al here a stiff price
for the turtles," he added laughing.

"Don't think you've turned such a clever trick, John," replied his
friend. "The hotel's only paying about $40 more than you were willing
to pay yourself, and probably won't use half of them for our dinner.
Besides, I've gotten a fine idea for my talk at our meeting on
Wednesday night."

"What's that?" asked the banker.

"Hidden Treasure," replied his friend. "Why, just look what's happened
to Bob here in two days. On Saturday there was a pond occupying
fifteen acres of the best ground on the farm and producing nothing.
To-day he has $72.97 and has prepared the way for the finest field of
corn that will be raised this year in the county, if not the state,
and there's no telling what he may do yet when he gets his Uncle Joe
thoroughly waked up," he laughed.

"By the way, Bob, do you want your money in cash?" asked the banker
looking at him keenly.

"If it's all the same to you, Mr. White, I'd like to leave it here on
deposit," replied Bob.

"Put it in the savings department, Bob," suggested Mr. Dow, "then
you'll get interest. Say, Bob," he continued, "tell your Uncle Joe I'm
going to have our agent see him and show him how he can protect his
family while he's paying for the farm."

"All right, I'll tell him," Bob replied.

When Bob drove into the barnyard just before noon his uncle hurried
over and looked into the wagon.

"Why, did he take all the turtles, Bob?" he inquired, surprised to
find the wagon empty.

"Yes, he took them," said Bob, "and sold them right away to the Fort
Henry Hotel in Pittsburgh. He called them up on the long distance
telephone."

"How much did he pay you for them?" was the next inquiry.

"$72.97," replied Bob proudly.

"What! for those turtles!" exclaimed his uncle. "I don't believe it."

"Well, you don't have to believe me," Bob laughed as he jumped from
the wagon. "I've the proof here." And he proudly exhibited his new
bank book.

The look of surprise on his uncle's face gave way to one of
disappointment.

"Of course, Uncle Joe, I put the money in the bank--I didn't want to
carry it around," he added.

His uncle said nothing more, but turned on his heel and walked away.
It was very evident to Bob that he had changed his mind and expected
him to turn over the proceeds from the sale of the turtles, but he was
determined that his uncle should stick to his agreement.

"Uncle Joe," he called, as his uncle reached the gate. "Mr. White told
me to tell you that the matter you were discussing with him was all
right and that he would be glad to see you any time."

"Oh, he did," said his uncle, turning and coming back to the wagon,
where Bob was unhitching the team.

"Yes, he did," said Bob, "said he'd accommodate you any time you were
in town."

"Well, I'm glad you drove a good bargain for the sale of the turtles,
Bob," remarked his uncle, the look of disappointment gone. "I said
they were yours and I want you to know that I still feel the same way
about it."

"Thank you, Uncle Joe," replied Bob, as he started for the barn with
the team.




VI

SELLING SAND


"Bob," said his uncle after dinner, as they were bringing the horses
from the barn, "the old pond looks as though it might take all summer
to dry out. Then, too, the brook winds through the center of it in
such a way as to really spoil the field for farming."

"Why couldn't we straighten the brook, Uncle Joe," asked Bob, after a
moment's thought, "or move it over to the south side against the bank
there. That would make it almost a straight line between the lane
bridge and the old forebay."

"But that would make a lot of work, Bob," replied his uncle, "and we
have more now than we have time for. It would be a good idea though to
have the brook on the outside of the field; but what bothers me most
is how we're going to keep the field from being flooded every time it
rains."

To this Bob made no reply.

All afternoon, as they were hauling manure to the field, he kept
turning over in his mind the question of straightening the brook, for
it was now evident that in order to make the field a success the brook
would not only have to be straightened but moved over to the south
side, so as to have the field all in one piece. He realized now that
the easiest part of redeeming the pond had been the letting out of the
water, and also that his uncle was right in saying that it might take
all summer for the bottom to dry out sufficiently for planting.

Bob had persuaded his uncle to let him stop work in the afternoon at
four-thirty in order to have time to do the milking and chores, and he
found that by hurrying he could get through before six o'clock. So
that night in the early twilight, he paced off the length of the south
side of the pond and found it was approximately seven hundred feet
from the bridge to the forebay. He remembered that, except on rare
occasions, the opening between the abutments of the bridge that
carried the lane over the brook had always been sufficient to take
care of any water. He now measured this space and found that the
abutments were eighteen feet apart and from the under side of the
timbers to the bed of the brook it was four feet six inches. He
returned to the house and got out his notebook and began making some
calculations. He found the area of the space under the bridge to be
eighty-one square feet. If they could dig a ditch back a few feet from
the south bank of the pond, where the ground rose sharply, and throw
the excavated earth on the north side of the cut, they would have a
channel with two good banks at the expense of making only one.

By pacing off eighteen feet of the bank, he had found that the slope
of the ground would average about two feet for that distance. The
depth of the water along the bank on the south side had been about two
feet. By digging three feet below the level of the bottom of the pond
it would mean an average cut of six feet. Taking out a block of earth
approximately eighteen feet by six feet, of one hundred and eight
square feet, would raise the banks high enough to allow for heavy
freshets, and the bottom of the ditch, being three feet below the
bottom of the pond, would allow for drainage.

He now calculated the amount of earth to be removed and found there
would be twenty-eight hundred cubic yards to be dug and piled up to
form the new north bank of the cut. He had no idea how much time it
would require to do this work, or what it might cost if they hired a
man to do it for them. After sitting for a few minutes debating the
matter, he became so sleepy that he put his notebook in his pocket and
went to bed.

"How long will it take you to dig a cubic yard of earth and pile it
out on one side of a ditch, Uncle Joe?" asked Bob the next morning at
the breakfast table.

"I don't know, Bob. Why do you ask?"

"I wanted to find out how much it would cost to straighten the brook
in our new bottom field," he replied.

"Well, I know one thing," said his uncle, "and that is that it will
cost more than I can afford to spend; and you know, Bob, we have no
time for digging ditches ourselves--in fact, it seems to me it was a
great mistake to drain the pond at all--the water at least covered the
bad-smelling bottom, and we could shoot an occasional wild duck
there."

"I'm not so sure about it being too expensive," replied Bob. "Mr.
White said yesterday that it didn't matter so much what an improvement
cost, if it could be made to pay the interest on the investment and
earn a profit beside. All I need to know now to complete my figures is
how much earth a man can dig and then I can tell how much it would
cost."

"If you want to know so badly, Bob, why don't you take a pick and
shovel and dig out a yard, and find out for yourself," suggested his
grandmother.

"Yes," said his uncle, "then you'd know what a real backache feels
like."

"All right," said Bob, "when may I do it?" turning to his uncle.

"Well, I suppose you might as well do it this morning as any time,"
said his uncle. "I know you won't be able to sleep to-night until you
find out; besides, I'm going to town and you can have the forenoon
off."

"That'll be fine, Uncle Joe," said Bob, "and there's another thing
too, I wanted to ask you. I see wagons hauling sand and gravel from
our pit. Who collects the money and how much do you charge them?"

"Charge a neighbor for a few loads of sand, Bob? What are you talking
about? Of course not."

"But if you went to their farms, Uncle Joe, and asked for the rich
soil out of their fields, they'd make you pay for it."

"Why, of course, Bob, but rich soil and sand and gravel are different.
There's plenty of sand and gravel."

"Where, Uncle Joe?"

"Oh, everywhere."

"Then if that's so," said Bob, "why did Dan McCormick send his three
wagons four miles to our pit last week? He said it was the nearest
sand to his farm and what's more he said it's the only clean sand and
gravel that don't need washing for fifteen miles around. I think we
ought to charge them so much a yard."

"All right, Bob," said his uncle, whose mind was evidently occupied
with things more important than selling sand. "You go ahead and make
them pay, but remember, if you don't have any friends among your
neighbors, don't blame me."

When his uncle returned from town a little after twelve o'clock, he
drove down to see what Bob was doing, and found him at work on the
ditch. As soon as Bob saw his uncle's face, he knew he had received
his loan from Mr. White, for he was smiling and seemed to be very
happy.

"Well, Bob, how are you making out?" he called cheerily, as he
approached, looking at the excavated dirt thrown out. Then his eye
caught a double line of stakes set at intervals and running the full
length of the pond, marking out the two sides of the cut.

"I dug out one cubic yard in forty minutes, Uncle Joe, but we could do
much better with a team of horses and a plow and scoop. Allowing
thirty cents per hour, the ditch would cost eight hundred and forty
dollars."

"Whee," said his uncle, "more than we could ever afford to pay, Bob,
I'm afraid, even though Mr. White is in favor of it and agreed to-day
to loan me whatever it would cost."

"Oh, then you told him about it?" said Bob. "How did he like the
scheme?"

"He said it was a first-rate idea, Bob. He also said we should lay
tile field drain through the bottom of the pond to the ditch every
fifty feet over the entire field. These would soon drain the bottom
and keep the new field dry."

"I've been wondering," said Bob, "what we could do about draining the
bottom, but I didn't think of tile, although it sounds like a good
idea."

And Bob took out his notebook and figured for a few minutes.

"If we put them fifty feet apart, that would mean twelve rows; each
row would be six hundred feet long--that would mean 7200 lineal feet.
Did Mr. White say what the tile would be worth a foot, laid, Uncle
Joe?"

"No, he didn't, Bob, and I was too busy to ask him."

"What would you say, Uncle Joe," remarked Bob a few minutes later, "if
I were to tell you we can get the ditch dug, a new dam built across
between the two banks down by the beech trees, and a road cut up the
west slope by the barn, so as to get rid of that steep hill, and we
won't have to spend one cent."

"What nonsense are you talking?" demanded his uncle. "You just said it
would cost eight hundred and forty dollars to dig the ditch alone."

"So it would, Uncle Joe, if we dug it by hand. We could probably do it
quicker if we used a team of horses and scoop, but, of course, we'd
have to allow for the value of the team while it was doing the work,
and, besides, it would take too long."

"Well, then, how'd it be done?" asked his uncle, interested in spite
of himself, for after his interview with the president of the First
National that morning he began to look upon Bob as something more than
a chore boy.

"Come over to the sand pit with me, Uncle Joe," he replied, "and I'll
show you."

Together they walked over to the pit and the first thing that caught
his uncle's eye was a large sign: Sand and Gravel for Sale Price 5oc
per cu. yd. Cash or Labor Inquire Robert Williams

"Well, what does it mean?" asked his uncle, reading the sign for the
second time.

"It means, Uncle Joe, that while I was still nailing up that sign two
men came along in a big gray touring car and stopped, and one of them
wanted to know what we'd take for the pit. I told him we sold our eggs
by the dozen and not by what a hen might lay in a year. He laughed and
said his name was Brady and that he had a contract for building some
bridges for the new railroad that's coming in three miles down the
creek and needed sand and gravel. The gentleman with him, who I judged
from what they said was the engineer for the railroad, seemed to be
very much pleased with the kind of sand and gravel we had, and I heard
him tell Mr. Brady he'd approve it for the work. After looking the pit
over, Mr. Brady asked what was meant by 'Cash or Labor,' so I told him
we had some work we wanted done and would be willing to have him give
us an estimate on the cost. He asked me what it was and I told him it
was a ditch, a dam and a road. So he went up and looked the ditch
over, then we went down to the beech trees and I explained to him
about the new dam we were going to put in there to generate electric
light for the farm. Then we rode up to the west slope in his big
touring car and he examined the bank there. I showed him my figures
for the ditch, and he made a memorandum of them; then he said if we
would let him have the exclusive use of the sand pit for one year,
taking out as much sand as he needed, and also let him have the heavy
timbers from the old mill, as he needed them for some shoring he had
to do, he would be willing to tear down the old mill, dig our ditch,
build us a new dam and a new road, using his caterpillar steam shovel
for the work."

"What did you say, Bob?" eagerly asked his uncle.

"I told him we couldn't think of it," replied Bob with a grin.

"What! You didn't take him up? What could you have been thinking of,
Bob?"

"Well, you see, Uncle Joe, we'll need a lot of sand and gravel
ourselves for making concrete fence posts and things like that, and
then we may want to build a concrete road from the main road up to the
barn, and, of course, we need a new dairy house and big silo."

"Yes, I know, Bob; the old place is pretty well run down," said his
uncle. "Mr. White said something to-day about looking ahead and making
permanent improvements, but we can't think of doing that now."

"I'm not so sure about that, Uncle Joe," replied Bob. "It seems we've
got the only sand and gravel pit within fifteen miles with sand and
gravel that the railroad engineer will accept for his work. I
overheard him say that to Mr. Brady."

"Well, what did you finally do about the sand, Bob?" inquired his
uncle eagerly.

"I told him the price was fifty cents per cubic yard in the pit, but
we would let him pay for it in work, if his prices for the work were
not too high, so he's going to make up a figure and come back and see
us. I told him I thought you'd be willing to let him have the timber
from the mill if he would take off the boards and two by fours and
haul them over to the sand pit for us. You know, Uncle Joe, these will
come in handy for us to build a shed when we start to make fence posts
and other things there."

"But will he need enough sand to pay for all this work, Bob?" asked
his uncle, now greatly excited.

"Yes, I'm sure he'll need more, for he seemed to be anxious to buy the
pit outright."

"He did!"

"Yes, he did, but I told him we were not willing to sell it, Uncle
Joe; that we expected to put up a lot of concrete buildings on the
farm besides building some concrete roads and making a lot of concrete
fence posts."

"Well, Bob, I guess you did a good half day's work all right," said
his uncle, "and to show you that I appreciate the way you've handled
this matter, I'll let you make the deal with Brady when he comes
back."

They didn't have long to wait, for about three o'clock that afternoon
a big gray touring car came snorting up the steep hill back of the
barn and stopped near where they were loading manure. The driver of
the car got out and came over to them.

"This is the Uncle Joe, I was telling you about, Mr. Brady," said Bob,
by way of introduction, as the contractor came up to them.

"Glad to know you, Mr. Williams. I came up to see you about buying
your sand pit. What will you take for it in cash? I haven't a great
deal of time to lose, so I brought the money with me," and he drew
from his pocket the largest roll of bills that Bob had ever seen in
his life.

"You'll have to--to--talk it over with Bob," hesitated Bob's uncle,
for at the sight of so much ready money he began to waver in his
resolutions to let Bob handle the matter.

"We don't want to sell it, Mr. Brady," spoke up Bob quickly. "We want
to control the pit ourselves and have sand and gravel for our own
use."

"Oh, that's all right. I'll let you have all you want for your own
use, free of cost, too," said Mr. Brady quickly.

"No," said Bob. "This is the only sand and gravel pit around here,
and, when they start building concrete roads in this county, which
they may do any time now, this pit will be valuable."

"Say, son," said the contractor, "you're wasting your time on a farm.
You ought to be with me in the contracting business. Who's been
telling you about this new county road work?"

"No one's been telling me," said Bob, "but everyone can see it doesn't
pay to haul heavy loads over rough roads to market your crops, and as
for farming," he added," it's a good business, too, Mr. Brady,
especially if you have a good sand pit on the place," he added
laughing.

[Illustration: "WELL, SON, LET'S GET DOWN TO BUSINESS. I SEE YOU'RE
WISE ALL RIGHT TO THE VALUE OF THAT PIT"]

"Well, son, let's get down to business. I see you're wise all right to
the value of that pit. How much work do you want me to do and how much
money will you want me to give you, and who's going to keep account of
the sand we get and when do we settle for it?"

"You said you had a steam shovel, Mr. Brady," said Bob. "Is it busy
now? We want to get this bottom land ready for corn this year."

"Not doing anything at the present time; can start your work next week
for the shovel's on the railroad siding at Indiana now," he replied
quickly.

"What do you charge a day for use of shovel with a man to operate it?"
asked Bob.

"Hold on there, son; you'll get to be as smart as I am if you keep on
at that rate. I don't rent the shovel by the day, but I'll tell you
what: I'll do your work on contract."

"All right," said Bob. "How much do you want for digging the ditch?"

"$700," said Mr. Brady, consulting a memorandum.

"And how much for building the dam?"

"$200 without a concrete spillway and sluice gate and $350 more with
them."

"And how much for the road up the west slope?"

"Well, that won't cost you much, son; that's an easier job than it
looks. I'll charge you only $100 for doing that. That would make $1350
total."

"Yes," replied Bob, setting down the amount in his own memorandum
book. "How much sand will you need, Mr. Brady?"

The contractor took a memorandum book from his pocket and consulted it
for a moment.

"About ten to fifteen thousand yards of sand and gravel together on my
first contract, but I expect to have a contract for building roads
pretty soon that will require more than double that."

At the mention of these figures, Bob exchanged glances with his uncle,
who had with difficulty kept to his agreement to let Bob make the
bargain, and he fairly gasped when he began to realize the earning
capacity of the old sand pit.

"I think you're charging me too much money, son, for the sand and
gravel. You ought to knock off five or ten cents per yard and give me
exclusive right to the pit."

"No," said Bob, "we're not willing to do that, but we will make this
bargain with you, Mr. Brady: if you will do our work for us right
away, we'll agree not to charge you more than fifty cents a cubic yard
for as much sand and gravel as you want."

Seeing there was no other way out of the matter, the contractor
finally consented to this arrangement.

"I'm not much on verbal contracts," he said, "for I find that people
who do not set down in black and white what they agree to do, often
forget and then there's trouble, so if you don't mind, Mr. Williams,
we'll step into the house and put our agreement in writing."

"How shall we arrange to keep account of the amount of materials I
get?" asked Mr. Brady, as they started for the house.

"How do you usually do?" asked Bob.

"I've got some tickets with my name on them," replied the contractor,
"and every time a man takes away a load he gives one of those tickets
to the man in charge of the pit. By the way, I suppose there'll be
some one in charge who can take care of these tickets?"

"Yes," said Bob quickly, before his uncle had a chance to speak.
"We're going to start a man making fence posts at the pit next week
and you can give the tickets to him."

A few minutes after they had sat down at the table in the sitting room
Mr. Brady handed the agreement to' Bob's uncle to read. He read it
over and then handed it to Bob, who read it over twice, very careful,
and then laid it down on the table.

"It reads all right, Mr. Brady, and seems to be just what we agreed to
do," said Bob, "but before we sign it I'd like to show it to Mr.
White, president of the First National Bank."

"All right, son, just as you like," said the contractor, a look of
disappointment on his face as he put his fountain pen in his pocket.
"I'll be here on Monday with my men and outfit, for I'm sure Mr. White
will find the agreement is all right."

"I think it is myself," said Bob, "but I'd like to have him read it
over anyway before it's signed."

As they walked out to the barnyard, where his car was standing, the
contractor turned to Joe Williams and asked:

"How do you manage to get up and down that steep hill with your
automobile, Mr. Williams?" "Oh, I don't have an automobile," Williams
replied.

"What! no car?" exclaimed Mr. Brady. "I don't see how your women folks
get along without one. Cars are so low and horses so high nowadays, it
don't pay to take a horse out of a busy team to drive to town. I
should think you couldn't do without one. Well, good day," he added,
as he climbed into his car and threw on the self-starter. "See you
next week."




VII

THE NEW AUNT


The following week was a very busy and eventful one for Bob. Plowing
time was rapidly approaching, and his uncle was anxious to have all
the manure placed on the fields ready to start work early; besides,
they had taken a day off at Bob's urging to prune the young orchard.
On Thursday he received a large package of Farm Bulletins from the
Department of Agriculture at Washington, in reply to a postcard he had
sent. He had only time for a hasty glance through them, before having
to lay them away for careful reading later.

On Friday his uncle turned over the team to him, saying he was going
to town for the day. Bob noticed that he had dressed up in his best
clothes, so was not surprised when he came in from work late that
afternoon to find they had company at the house.

"Come here, Bob," called his uncle cheerily, as he entered. "I want
you to meet your new Aunt Bettie. She isn't exactly your aunt yet, but
she will be soon."

Bob hastened forward to take the out stretched hand of the woman who
rose to greet him.

Bob had a quick eye for beauty; he noted the fair, soft complexion
which the rich dark hair set off so beautifully, but not this alone
made the strong and conscious appeal to him--it was the frank manner
with which she took his hand and the friendly light in her lovely
brown eyes that won Bob completely.

"So this is 'Bob,' of whom you have been telling me," said Miss
Atwood. "I'm certainly glad to make your acquaintance, Bob. Your Uncle
Joe has been telling me many things about you, and I know we're going
to be fast friends and have lots of fun together on the farm this
summer."

"I hope so," said Bob, "for I like farming better than anything I
know; there are so many interesting things to see and do."

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Bob," she replied. "In these days,
when most boys of your age want to be in the town and cities, it's
refreshing to find one who has vision enough to appreciate the golden
opportunities of the country. Your Uncle Joe doesn't know it, but I've
been doing considerable reading myself about farm life and farm work
since we became engaged, and the more I read the more enthusiastic I
become, and I'm sure we're going to have lots of pleasant days and
evenings, too, together."

"Have you been reading farm bulletins, also, Aunt Bettie?" Bob asked
hesitating, as he used her new title for the first time.

"That's right, I want you to call me 'Aunt Bettie'," she replied
quickly, seeing his embarrassment. "Yes, I've gotten a great many
bulletins from the Department of Agriculture at Washington and have
read them over and over very carefully. The opportunities on a farm,
if one just keeps his eyes open, are certainly wonderful."

"I'd like to read your bulletins, too," said Bob, his eyes sparkling.

"I thought you were going to give up teaching school, Bettie,"
interrupted her intended husband, "and here you and Bob are getting
ready to start one. First thing you know, you'll be getting another
scholar, one six feet tall," and he laughed down at her.

"Well, frankly, Joe," she replied, "you might spend your evenings less
profitably than reading bulletins and other interesting papers on
making farms pay."

"Guess I'll have to get in line," he replied laughing. "Bob's been
preaching to me ever since he came here about modernizing the old farm
and digging up our 'Hidden Treasure,' as he calls it."

"You'll have to excuse me now, Aunt Bettie," said Bob, "for it's
milking time and I always plan to milk our cows regularly."

His heart was light and he whistled a merry tune as he started for the
barn, the milk pails on his arm. He now felt sure that this summer was
going to be the happiest one he had ever spent.

After the supper dishes had been cleared away, they sat together and
talked of the things to be done to improve the farm and which would be
the best crops to plant. As the discussion continued, Joe Williams
began to realize that both Bettie and Bob knew many things about
farming of which he was ignorant--things which, he reluctantly
admitted to himself, were of the utmost importance.

On Saturday they quit work at noon to go to town. Bob asked his uncle
if he were going to take Mr. Brady's contract and show it to Mr.
White, the banker.

"The bank closes at noon on Saturdays, Bob," replied his uncle, "and
we're to be pretty busy, Bettie and I, buying our things, for we're
getting new furniture for the house, and I want to bring it back with
me."

"Perhaps Mr. White doesn't go out of town on Saturday and I could find
him at his home," said Bob. "I think we ought to have the matter
settled before Mr. Brady gets here on Monday morning with his tools.
It might make some difference if he started work before the agreement
is signed."

"All right, Bob, you take the contract and try to find him. I'll be
too busy loading the furniture to bother with it."

So as soon as he arrived in town, Bob left the wagon in front of the
furniture store where his uncle, who had driven in with Miss Atwood in
the buggy, was waiting. He hurried over to the First National Bank.
The bank seemed to be closed, but the entrance door was unlocked, and
after some time he found the banker in the directors' room going over
some papers.

"Back already for your money, Bob?" laughed the banker, as he opened
the door to admit him.

"No, Mr. White, I haven't yet found a better investment for the money.
I came to see you about our sand pit. A Mr. Brady, who says he has the
contract to build some bridges for the new railroad, wants to buy our
sand and we have made a bargain with him and he put it in writing. We
didn't sign it, for while it seems to be all right, Uncle Joe would
like to have you look it over first."

"Oh, indeed," replied the banker, "and whose idea was it that I should
read the contract before signing?"

"Well," hesitated Bob, "we thought maybe it would be better to be sure
it was all right since you're loaning Uncle Joe money for the farm."

"That's right, Bob; that's only fair. Follow out that principle and
you'll always get along."

He took the paper and read it through carefully and laid it down. Then
he reflected a moment, picked it up and read it again. Then he
whistled softly.

"You're right, Bob, in bringing this to me," he said, tapping the top
of the table thoughtfully with the end of his pencil. "That contract
is very well written.

"You see, Bob," said the banker, laying the document on the table,
"this contract would be all right if you were sure you had enough sand
and gravel to supply Mr. Brady's wants, but you will notice that he
does not specify how much material he expected to use, nor does he
state when he will require it, and if he took a notion to measure all
the sand you have in the pit and issue a receipt for it, he could take
it and let it lie on your ground for re-sale; he could do that under
this agreement. Also, if you didn't have as much material as he
wanted, he could compel you to supply him from other sources at the
rate of fifty cents a yard."

"Well, what had we better do about it, Mr. White?" inquired Bob. "Mr.
Brady's going to go to work on the ditch on Monday morning. He's
setting up his caterpillar steam shovel now and getting ready."

"Wait a moment," said the banker, as he pressed the button. "I'll see
if my stenographer has gone. She usually leaves at noon, but to-day I
had some extra work that she stayed to finish--no, here she comes--
we'll have it re-written."

"Will you kindly make two copies of this agreement, Miss Brown?" asked
the banker.

"You see, Bob, there should always be two copies of all agreements--
one fer yourself and one for the other party to the contract. It is
always best to have all agreements in duplicate."

"You see, Bob," said the banker, as he finished dictating, "I've added
a time limit to the contract. A year from now, when I hope they will
begin making concrete county roads, your sand and gravel, if the
supply holds out, ought to be worth at least $1.00 per cubic yard."

"I had no idea sand and gravel were so valuable" said Bob.

"Well, I've been looking the matter up a bit lately," replied the
banker, "and I wouldn't be surprised if you could get that price for
it a year from now--maybe before that even. There isn't a great deal
of good sand and gravel in the entire county--certainly none that is
as good as yours. If you've something else you'd like to do, Bob, you
may stop around in an hour or so and get these contracts. I'll read
them over after Miss Brown has them finished, and put my O. K. on
them. I may not be here when you return."

Bob hastened to the store to impart the information he had obtained to
his uncle, but found him so busy loading the farm wagon with his new
purchases that Bob had to explain the matter to him several times
before he seemed to understand.

At four o'clock Bob returned to the bank and received the corrected
copies from the president, who was still there.

"How much do we owe you, Mr. White, for doing this for us?" asked Bob.

"Oh, I don't think I'll charge you anything for this, Bob, although it
is worth something to know how to do a thing right, but since I've
decided to make our bank the headquarters for farmers, we expect to do
little things like this for our friends, so you're welcome to whatever
the service is worth."

"Well, I'm sure we didn't expect you to do it for nothing," replied
Bob, "and I know Uncle Joe will be pleased that you fixed it up for
him."

"By the way, Bob," said the banker, "you might tell your uncle that
there's going to be a sale of some purebred and grade Holstein cattle
next week on a farm in the southern part of the county, and that I'd
like to have him bid them in. There are ten young cows and a fine
bull--just the kind he should have to start a herd on his farm."

At the mention of the purebreds, Bob's eyes sparkled, but after
reflecting a moment he replied:

"Uncle Joe'll not have money enough to buy any now, Mr. White, and
besides, he doesn't think there's much advantage in purebred over
ordinary cattle."

"You tell your Uncle Joe that the First National Bank is back of him
and we'll loan him the necessary money to buy these cattle, and that I
think he should replace his present herd of old common cattle with
young purebred stock--that it will pay him to do so. He can get back a
part of their cost by selling off his present herd. I've about come to
the conclusion, Bob, that there's more money in that sand pit of your
Uncle Joe's than either you or he have any idea. Tell him the sale
will be next Tuesday, and if he'll come in early in the morning, I'll
drive him down in my automobile. We can get back easy by noon, so
he'll only lose half a day. I know all about these cattle--they're a
first-class healthy herd. The man that owned them died, and his widow
is selling off all their stock."

"All right, Mr. White, I'll tell him," said Bob. "Thank you for your
advice about the contract."

"I want to see that farm of your uncle's, Bob, improved and well
stocked this year--first on account of the benefit he'll get from it
and second on account of the influence it will have on the neighboring
farms. We've lots of good farms around here, Bob, and I want a model
one for the others to pattern after. All our farms need to make them
pay well is wide-awake farmers, with a constructive bank back of them
to give them the necessary financial help to get started. I've decided
that the First National is going to be that bank, and stand back of
all farmers in this county who'll make real improvements.

"Your uncle's farm I've picked out to start with, on account of his
having that gravel pit, which will make it possible to build his new
buildings and pay off the mortgage quickly. Of course, the others must
necessarily go slower in their improvements, but when we finish with
your uncle this fall, Bob, we'll have the others all so jealous
they'll just naturally get into line."




VIII

THE SALE


Bob's heart beat quickly on Monday morning, as he looked out from the
barnyard in the direction of the old mill and saw the smoke coming
from the steam shovel that Mr. Brady had placed at the lower end of
the ditch, ready to start operations. Brady evidently intended to do
the work in the shortest possible time, for while Bob was still
looking, the operator started the machine, and Bob saw the shovel sink
deep into the soft earth and a moment later swing over to the north
side, and the first yard of dirt had been removed. He even forgave the
contractor for his attempt to drive a sharp bargain in his written
contract, though he remembered Brady's embarrassment when his uncle
pointed out the defects in his written agreement and hastily signed
the corrected one made by John White.

Bob could scarcely realize that it was little more than a week since
the eventful Saturday afternoon he had spent fishing in the old pond.
He was whistling merrily as he brought out the horses to start the
spring plowing.

"I don't like to spoil that merry tune of yours so early Monday
morning, Bob, but I've been in a quandary for several days to know how
to tell you that it isn't going to be possible for you to go to the
wedding," said his uncle. "You see, some one will have to stay on the
place while we're away, and your grandmother and grandfather ought to
go, and, of course, I'll have to be there myself," he laughed.

"That's all right," replied Bob. "Of course, I'd like to go to the
wedding, but I'll have lots of time to get acquainted with Aunt Bettie
afterwards, and, besides," he added, glancing at the sun coming over
the hill, "we ought to get our spring plowing started as soon as
possible. I was just wondering, Uncle Joe," he added, "who we could
get to look after the sand pit and start making fence posts. I was
reading in one of the 'Concrete on the Farm' bulletins how they're
made. It isn't going to be much of a job to receive the tickets for
sand and gravel that Mr. Brady'll take away, and the man in charge can
spend practically all of his time making fence posts. He ought to make
at least 20 posts each day--that would mean that in a month we would
have 520 posts--enough for 520 rods of fence--or in a year 6240 rods."

"But you couldn't make fence posts in cold weather, Bob," corrected
his uncle.

"Why, yes, you can, Uncle Joe, if you have an enclosed shed with some
heat in it. The bulletin tells all about how to do concrete work in
cold weather."

"Well, I'll look around to-day, Bob, and see who I can find. I have to
go to town at noon to attend to some business. You have to get a
license, you know, so I'll have to attend to that before I forget it.
Shall I plow around for the first time or two for you, Bob?" asked his
uncle, as they hitched the team to the plow.

"No," said Bob. "I'd like to try it myself," and he guided the horses
along the fence for the first furrow.

The field they had selected was the one lying just back of the barn,
and Bob had completed three sides and was coming along the fourth,
which adjoined the fence between the woodshed and the house. His
uncle, who was washing the buggy, looked up and noticed that he was
leaving considerable space between this fence and his furrow.

"Why are you leaving such a large space in the corner, Bob?" he
called, as the team came abreast of where he was working.

"I was leaving a space for a new hen house, Uncle Joe," he replied.

"What new hen house?" asked his uncle.

"Oh, didn't Aunt Bettie tell you when she was here that we talked
about the location for a new hen house, and she thought it ought to be
put out here in this field between the house and the barn, so that it
would face to the south," answered Bob.

"Why, no, I guess she must have forgotten to mention it to me," said
his uncle, "but I don't think we'll be able to afford any new
buildings on the farm this year, Bob."

"I'm not so sure about that," replied Bob. "You know, Mr. White said
the First National Bank was going to be run as a constructive bank and
that he would be willing to loan money on any permanent improvements,
and that he wanted to make a model farm of yours this year. Besides,
you remember what I told you he said about the value of our sand and
gravel pit."

"Yes, Bob, but look at the work we have contracted for already; don't
forget how many loads of sand and gravel it will take to pay for
that."

"That's so," said Bob, "but Mr. White didn't seem to be so much
concerned about the amount we spent for improvements as what we spent
it for. He seems to be anxious to have us fix the old farm up and
believes it will pay."

"That's all right for you and John White," added his uncle, "to talk
of making this a model farm in a year, but it's my name that's going
to be on the notes, and some fine morning when we get all these
improvements made, he may drive out here and take the model farm away
from me for the notes."

"I don't think John White would do such a thing," said Bob stoutly.
"Besides, why should he call his bank a 'Constructive Bank,' if he
used it to destroy other people's hopes? I should think he would call
it a 'Destructive Bank,' instead."

"Well, maybe so," said his uncle. "Anyhow, it won't hurt any one to
let that little corner go undeveloped for the present, till I talk it
over with your Aunt Bettie. It may please her if we carry out her
suggestion."

"Why're you so quiet, Bob?" asked his grandmother at dinner that day.
"One would think it was you that was getting married instead of your
Uncle Joe, sitting there as solemn as an owl and not saying anything.
Has the cat run away with your tongue so soon?"

"Why, no," said Bob. "I was just thinking."

"You weren't feeling badly because you weren't going to the wedding,
were you?" asked his uncle, looking up.

"No, Uncle Joe, I wasn't. I was just wondering if they might have some
bees at the sale to-morrow."

"Bees!" exclaimed his grandmother. "What in the world do you want with
bees? Isn't it bad enough around the farm already with yellow-jackets
and bumble-bees, without bringing any more here? I should think you
would get stung enough by the wild bees without wanting to bring a lot
of honey bees to the farm."

"Yes, grandmother, but you forget that the wild bees don't make any
honey, or earn anything for us, and honey bees would be earning money
all the time. I've been reading in one of the farmers' bulletins that
a good colony of bees would make 30 pounds of honey in a season, which
at 20 cents per pound would be worth $6.00, and the only thing we
would have to do would be to look them over carefully and smoke them
once in a while when they swarmed," he replied.

"Say, Bob, did John White put these bees in your bonnet?" asked his
uncle suddenly.

[Illustration with caption: BEES ARE A PROFITABLE SIDE LINE THAT PAY
IN INCREASED CROPS OF FRUIT AS WELL AS HONEY AND REQUIRE LITTLE CARE]

"No, it was an idea I got out of one of the farm bulletins," he
replied.

"Well, I think you had better give up reading those bulletins for a
while, and keep your mind on your plowing," said his uncle.

"Why, didn't I do lots of work this morning, Uncle Joe?" asked Bob
surprised.

"Yes, of course; but I mean you can't work and think both," said his
uncle.

"Why not, Uncle Joe? Don't you remember what Mr. Dow, the insurance
man, said about the farmers that didn't think?"

"Well, anyhow, I draw the line at buying bees," replied his uncle
firmly.

"Yes," added his grandmother. "I don't want any bees around here,
spoiling the fruit."

"But, grandmother, you haven't waited to find out what I'm going to do
with them," said Bob. "I don't want to put them around the house. I
want to put them between the clover meadow and the young orchard, and,
besides, they don't spoil the fruit. It's the other insects that do
that. A honey bee couldn't do that if it wanted to."

"Bob," asked his uncle, showing an interest for the first time, "why
do you want to put them away over there?"

"Because I've been reading in the farm bulletins that the reason
orchards have such poor crops of fruit is because they don't have
enough bees to pollinate the blossoms. The bulletin said that every
orchard should have a number of colonies of bees. Of course, the
nearer the bees are to the blossoms the more honey they'll make,
because the distance is short; besides, if we put them at the edge of
the orchard next to the meadow when the clover is in bloom, they could
work on the clover, too, just as easy as the orchard blossoms, and
they'd make a lot of honey," he declared.

"Well, Bob, you certainly have been reading those books," said his
grandfather, glancing up from his paper. "Between your own work, Joe,
your new wife and your chore boy," he said, "you're going to lead a
pretty busy life this summer, if I don't miss my guess."

"Well, why not, grandfather?" demanded Bob.

"No reason in the world, my boy, and you've hit the nail square on the
head by locating the hives between the orchard and the meadow. A bee
can probably make four to five times as much honey in a season there
than if we put the hives out back of the barn or in some other place
near the house."

"I'd like to please you in this matter, Bob, if I could," said his
uncle, "but you know how things are this year. We're doing so much
already that I don't feel as though I could spare a dollar to invest
in bees."

"But, Uncle Joe, I haven't asked you to invest anything in bees. I was
only wondering if there'd be some bees for sale. You know I have
$72.97 myself on deposit at the First National, and I was wondering
whether you'd be willing to let me buy the bees and take enough time
off to look after them for the benefit the orchard would get. I've a
notion that the bees could earn more for me than the money will earn
at interest."

"Now, that's what I call real 'git up and git'," said his grandmother,
suddenly forgetting her prejudice against bees, in admiration of the
scheme.

"Well, if they've any at the sale, how many do you want me to buy,
Bob?" asked his uncle.

"I should think five or six good colonies would do to start with, and
they ought not to cost more than ten dollars each, provided they're
good and healthy."

"How the dickens am I to know whether they're good and healthy, Bob?
You don't want me to knock at their door and say, 'Good morning bees;
how do you find yourself this morning'?"

"Of course not," laughed Bob. "I forgot you don't understand bees."

"But, how would you get them here?" asked his uncle, suddenly
realizing that hauling hives of bees around the country might not be a
pleasant job, and also that the farm to which he was going was some
eighteen miles away.

"Well, of course," said Bob, "it would cost something to haul them,
but maybe they've an automobile truck and you could pay a little more
and have them delivered."

"All right, Bob, I'll look into the matter and let you know when I
return," said his uncle.

After supper, when the chores had been done, Bob went over to look at
the ditch. He was astonished to find how much work had been
accomplished. A clean-cut trench with uniform banks on either side and
the new bank leveled on top 125 feet long had been dug. He didn't know
how much a caterpillar steam shovel was worth, but at the rate the
contractor figured for the ditch, he would have $610.00 left over,
after paying the operator and engineer each $5.00 per day, for six
days' work, which Bob thought ought to be enough to cover their wages,
and adding $5.00 per day for fuel, making $90.00 in all. Machinery was
certainly the thing to handle work quickly and cheaply, for after
deducting the cost of bringing the shovel to the job and taking it
away again, the contractor would make a handsome profit, and he was
more impressed than ever with the conversation he had overheard
between Mr. White and Mr. Dow regarding power on the farm.

Bob was at supper with his grandparents when his Uncle Joe returned
from the sale the next evening, but instead of taking a half day, as
he had thought, he had used up an entire day.

"I thought you were going to get back at noon, Uncle Joe," said Bob.
"Did they have any bees to sell?"

"How many colonies did you ask me to buy, Bob?" asked his uncle
laughing.

"Five or six," said Bob.

"Well, I got them for you all right, but there's not five or six. They
had twenty-two and they wouldn't sell one without selling all. So I
bought them all for $50.00, which you see is less than you said you
were willing to pay for six and they're going to deliver them, too, in
modern sectional hives. They are three-banded Italian, whatever that
means, with one or two exceptions they say the colonies are in a good
healthy condition."

"That's fine," said Bob, so excited he was scarcely able to eat his
supper. "What else did you buy?"

"Well, Bob, if I go to the poorhouse, there'll be no one to blame for
it but you and John White."

"Why, how's that?" asked Bob's grandfather, looking up quickly.

"Well, it was like this: when he got me down there he not only
persuaded me to buy the ten young Holstein cows and a bull, but he
induced me to buy five Berkshire brood sows and two four-year-old
Belgian mares. He wanted me to take a flock of Southdown Ewes and a
ram, but I didn't buy them--there's no money in keeping a few sheep."

"Were they nice-looking sheep, Joe?" asked his father, who was very
fond of sheep.

"The finest I ever saw, father, but I didn't want to go so far in
debt."

"Then who bid them in, Joe?" asked his father.

"Bob."

"Me!" asked Bob, looking up suddenly.

"Yes, John White bought them for you and said he would be willing to
advance the money to pay for them, and you could pay him back later.
He said they were too good a bargain to lose."

"But I've no farm for them to run on," said Bob, "and it wouldn't be
fair for me to pasture them on your land, Uncle Joe."

"I was thinking of that," said his uncle.

"Well, the only fair way, Uncle Joe, would be for you to take the
sheep yourself, for it wouldn't be fair for me to keep them on your
farm. Besides, I'll be busy enough with the bees."

"And the chickens," added his uncle.

"Why, did you buy some chickens, Uncle Joe?"

"Yes, that confounded John White made me buy nearly everything on the
place. I bought fifty single-comb white Leghorn pullets and three
cockerels. Also ten white Plymouth Rock pullets and one cockerel, also
an incubator and brooder. The chickens," added his uncle, "are for
your Aunt Bettie. Since you're going to build a new hen house I
thought we'd better get some good chickens."

Bob was so excited now that he left the table and rushed up to his
room to get out the farm bulletins that showed the best types of hen
houses. When he returned his uncle and his grandfather were busily
talking.

"Joe," remarked his father, "I'm afraid you're getting in pretty deep
with John White putting these notions into your head about modern
farming. Don't forget you owe me $2000.00 on the farm, which, with all
the other things you've bought, you must be terribly in debt."

"I was afraid you'd feel that way about it, father, and I told White
so," he replied.

"He probably don't care, as long as he was getting you to borrow his
money and sign his notes," said his father.

"That's where you do him an injustice, father," replied his son. "He
said the first thing I should do would be to pay you off, and as it
don't make any difference whether I pay interest to you or the bank,
he loaned me enough money to pay you off, so the next time we go to
town we'll fix the matter up. I told John White if I went broke he'd
be the one to suffer."

"What did he say?" asked his father.

"He only laughed and said, 'I'll take a chance on you, Joe, since I've
met the woman you're going to marry and that boy you've got on the
farm. If the pair of them don't make you "git up and git," then I'll
miss my guess.'"

"H'm," sniffed his mother, "it's little that Betsy Atwood knows about
farming, with her high-fangled New England notions and Farm Bulletin
Education. H'm!"

"Now, mother," said her son, "people aren't living on farms any more
the way they used to. Farms must be made attractive and work must be
made easy, if people are to live on them. That's why you're leaving
yourself."

"Nobody ever accused me before, Joe Williams, of not doing my share of
work. Your father and I toiled all our lives and this is how much you
appreciate it."

"But I tell you, mother, farmers aren't satisfied to get along in the
same way they used to. The farmer is human and wants comforts and
pleasures in life just as well as anybody else, and I'm beginning to
believe that John White was right when he made me buy an automobile
to-day."

"What!" almost shouted his mother. "Joe Williams, you've gone plumb
crazy. John White has bewitched you!"

"No, he hasn't, mother. I knew you'd feel that way when I told you
about it, and that's one reason I want to pay you off first, so you
won't lose anything if I fail."

"Whatever induced you to buy an automobile, Joe?" asked his father,
while Bob sat staring, unable to believe his ears.

"Well, it was like this: On the way back from the sale he said, 'Now,
Joe, this ought to give you a pretty good equipment by the time you
get your new buildings put up."

"What! Is he suggesting new buildings?" demanded his mother. "As if
the buildings we used aren't good enough for our children." "It was
like this," Joe continued, ignoring the interruption; "as we were
driving back in the car, he said, 'Now, Joe, I want you to remember
you're marrying a young woman who has been accustomed to going about a
bit, and will have to get away from the farm occasionally in order to
be happy, and you've one of the most enthusiastic boys on your farm
I've ever met, but his enthusiasm will not keep up if he's to be tied
down tight. What you need is an automobile, so you can go to church,
and in the evening, when your work is done, you can go for a drive, or
run in and see the movies. I don't mind telling you there are two
reasons why I'm recommending this car to you. First, I want you to
find out for yourself what miserable roads there are in this county
and why they should be paved with concrete. Second, I want you to make
it so pleasant on the farm for your wife, and later for your children,
that they'll always want to stay there--for we must keep our boys and
girls on the farm if this country is to prosper. The trouble has been
farmers have not realized the old saying, "All work and no play makes
Jack a dull boy." That's why the farms are deserted. There's one
restriction, though, I'm going to place on you, and that is that the
car is never to be run during working hours, except such as your wife
might use it to drive to market, and the car must be sheltered in a
building and kept clean. I don't want to ever see you drive in to town
with a car all covered with mud. Now, if you're willing to do that,
I'll advance you enough money so you'll have a complete outfit.'"

"Well, I suppose you signed up for it," said his mother hopelessly.

"Yes," laughed her son. "I thought I might as well take the automobile
along with the other things, mother."

"H'm!" sniffed his mother. "Joe Williams, I'll give you six months
until the sheriff sells you out. I never thought I'd raise a son who
would turn out to be such a fool," and she burst into tears.

"Now, now, mother, you're all wrong in this matter," said her son,
going over and taking her in his arms. "I'm not doing this simply
because I love Betsy Atwood but because it's good business, and,
besides, I want to make her life pleasant. It's the modern idea,
mother; it's the right way to do, and I think John White is right. The
reason farmers' boys and girls refuse to stay on the old farm is on
account of the few amusements they get. Don't you worry about the
sheriff selling me out, for if I live I can easily make a go of it,
and if I should die suddenly, I've a $10,000.00 life insurance policy
in the Farmers' Mutual that will pay off the mortgage and leave
something for Bettie besides. Of course, it cost something to take out
a policy of $10,000.00; everything of value costs, but an insurance
policy that pays off the mortgage, if I happen to die, relieves me of
all worry. It would have been a risk without insurance, but I feel
safe now."




IX

POWER AND BANKING


Everything was hustle and bustle on the farm on Monday morning, March
twenty-seventh, for this was to be Joe Williams' wedding day.

Bob was up at daylight, milked his cows and finished his chores before
breakfast. At nine o'clock his Uncle Joe and grandparents left for
town, where they would take the ten o'clock train to Greensburg, where
the wedding was to be solemnized at noon.

As previously arranged, Bob stayed on the farm to look after things
and finish plowing the ten-acre field adjoining the barn, which had
been started two days before. It was scarcely nine-thirty when he
turned and started back along the north side of the field. He glanced
in the direction of the barn and beheld an unusual sight. A small
automobile had been driven into the barnyard and close behind it came
the most unusual looking piece of machinery he had ever seen. He
stopped his team and stood leaning on the plow, wondering what it
might be. The driver of the automobile, whom he recognized as John
White, president of the First National Bank, jumped from the car and
opened the gate of the field in which Bob was plowing and a moment
later the machine entered. It crossed the ground he had already plowed
on the west side of the field and entered the furrow; then swung
around with its side toward him. He now recognized the apparatus--it
was a tractor gang plow, and as it went along, he saw it was throwing
up three furrows at a time. As he watched it go he could not help
noticing how much faster it moved than his team of horses was capable
of doing. He was so lost in admiration of the speed and ease with
which the plow did its work that he did not notice the banker coming
toward him until he stood beside him.

"Well, what do you think of that, Bob, for a plow?" asked the banker
laughing.

"Some plow, Mr. White," said Bob, taking off his hat and running his
fingers through his sandy hair, while he still kept his gaze riveted
on the tractor which now turned the southeast corner and started up on
the east side of the field.

"Better turn your team out of the furrow, Bob," advised the banker,
"and let the tractor get ahead of you. I want you to follow it around
the field, so you can see how much faster it travels than your team."
Bob had scarcely turned his team out before the tractor came up
opposite them, and with a wave of the hand and a cheery good morning,
the operator of the machine went by the admiring boy and the smiling
banker.

"Now get your team in behind him, Bob, and see if you can catch him,"
said the banker.

Bob had not gone more than a few rods before it became evident to him
that his team would never overtake the fast-moving tractor. In, fact,
before he had gone half the distance, the tractor was up behind him
again on the second round, so he turned his team out again to let it
go by. This time, however, the operator brought the machine to a stop
and said:

"Come over and have a look at her, young man."

"This is Mr. Patterson, of the Farmers' Harvester Company, Bob, with
their latest model tractor plow. Show him how to operate it,
Patterson," said Mr. White, "and then let him take it around the field
himself."

"Oh, but I couldn't run a piece of machinery like that," protested
Bob.

"Sure you can. That's why we brought it out here," said the banker.

"Oh, no, I'm sure it would be too complicated for me," protested Bob.

"That's where you are mistaken," said the agent, jumping down from the
operator's seat. "Come here and I'll explain the mechanism to you in a
few minutes."

After he had finished, he turned to Bob and said:

"This thing is so simple, it'll run itself, except at the corners,
where you'll have to operate it to turn."

"How do you mean, run itself?" asked the unbelieving boy.

"Well, I'll show you," said the agent, as he adjusted one or two of
the levers, and, much to Bob's astonishment, the tractor set off down
the field by itself.

"Why, how do you do that?" he asked, staring open-mouthed after the
disappearing tractor.

"Come down to the corner and I'll show you," said the agent.

"But I can't leave the team," said Bob.

"Oh, I'll take care of the team," said the banker laughing. "You go
down and operate the plow."

Handing the lines over to the banker, Bob hurried after the agent, who
was racing down the field so as to catch up to the tractor before it
reached the corner. Then he stopped the machine until Bob came up.
"Now, this is how it's done, Bob. You see this self-steering device
down here in the furrow. Well, I set this lever and clamp it over fast
and this self-steering device rubs along the edge of the furrow and
keeps the plow following the furrow. In big fields in the West, where
there's plenty of room and the ground is comparatively level, we
always plow around a circle. There's where we use our big fellers," he
said smiling. "Fourteen plows in a gang and one man can operate all of
them at once."

"You don't mean it," said Bob. "Three or four plows going at once, and
each one plowing fourteen furrows. Why, you would plow a field like
this in less than a day."

"Less than a day," said the agent. "How long will it take you to
finish this field with your team, Bob?"

[Illustration with caption: THE TRACTOR WILL DO THE WORK OF FIVE MEN
AND FIVE TEAMS AND ONLY EATS WHEN IT'S WORKING]

"Well, I expect to get through by noon on Saturday," he replied.

"Well, what do you say if we finish it up by six o'clock tonight?"

"But you couldn't do that, Mr. Patterson!"

"We can't! Well, you just wait till I show you. I want you to get into
the seat and run it yourself, Bob; then you can see how it goes."

The boy climbed awkwardly into the machine and adjusted the levers
according to instructions.

"I'm sure I won't be able to handle it, Mr. Patterson," he said, as he
opened the throttle and the engine started.

"Won't be able to handle it? All you need to do is to sit on the seat
and let it go. Now shove this lever and throw in the clutch,"
suggested the agent, and off the plow started.

"It does run easy,"