The Idyl of Twin Fires Part 3

"Fifty a month," said I, "which includes milking the cows and tending furnace in winter."

"Sure, I got more than that on me last place and no cows at all."

"Ye're a liar, Mike," said Bert.

"That's a fightin' word in the ould country," said Mike.

"This ain't the old country, and yer got $45," Bert grinned.

"Besides, yer'll be close to yer work. You wuz a mile an' a half frum the Sulloways. Thet makes up fer the milkin'."

"True, true," Mike replied, meditatively. "But what be yer runnin'

the place for, Mr. Upton? Is it a real farmer ye'd be?"

"A real farmer," I answered. "Why?"

"Well, I didn't know. Onct I worked fer one o' them literary fellers that married rich, and he was always fer makin' me try new-fangled things in the ground instead o' good old cow manure. Begorra, he nigh drove the life out o' me with his talk o' bac-bac-bac somethin'--some kind of bugs, if ye can beat that--that he said made nitrogen. I've heard say yer wuz a literary feller, too, Mr. Upton, and I have me doubts."

"Well, I am a sort of a literary feller," I confessed, "but I never married a rich wife."

"Sure, ye're not so old to be past hopin'," Mike replied.

I shook my head, and added, "But it's you I want to be the real literary feller, Mike. You must write me a poem in potatoes."

Mike put back his head and roared. "It's a pome yer want, is it?" he cried. "Sure, it's an oration I'll give ye. I'll grow ye the real home rule pertaters."

"Well," said I, rising, "do you begin to-morrow morning, and will your son help for a few weeks?"

"The mornin' it is," said Mike, "and Joe along."

I paused by the side of the girl. "All Gaul is divided into three parts," I laughed.

She looked up with a pretty smile, but Mike spoke: "Sure, but they give all three parts to Nora," he said, "so what was the use o' dividin'

it? She thinks she's me mither instead o' me daughter!"

"I'll put you to bed in a minute," said Nora, while Mike grinned proudly at her.

"I'm going to like Mike," said I to Bert, as we walked back up the road.

"I knoo yer would soon ez I seen yer," Bert replied. "The only folks thet don't like Mike is the folks thet can't see a joke. Mike has a tolerable number o' dislikers."

"Well, I've got my farmer," said I, "and now I suppose I've got to find a housekeeper, as soon as the house is ready to live in. Nora would suit me."

"I reckon she would," Bert replied, "but she wouldn't soot Bentford."

"In other words, I want an oldish woman, very plain, and preferably a widow?"

"With a young son old enough ter help on the farm," Bert added with a grin.

"I don't suppose you know of just that combination?"

"Reckon I dew. You leave it to my old lady."

"Mr. Temple," said I, "seems to me I'm leaving everything to you."

"Wal, neow, yer might do a heap sight worse!" said Bert.

I went up to my chamber when we got back, and sat down beside my little gla.s.s lamp and did some figuring. I had $24,000 of my savings left, and out of that I subtracted another $2,000 for the carpenters and plumbers. That left me with an income from my investments of about $1,000 a year. Added to my alleged salary as a ma.n.u.script reader, along with what I hoped I could pick up writing, I recklessly calculated my annual income as a possible $3,000. Out of this I subtracted $600 for Mike's wages, $360 for a housekeeper, $400 for additional labour, $75 for taxes, and $500 for additions to my "plant," as I began to call my farm. That made a total of $1,935, and left me a margin of about $1,000 for food, wines, liquors, and cigars, magazines, rare etchings, first editions, golf club dues, golf b.a.l.l.s, caddy hire, an automobile, some antique mahogany, a few Persian rugs, an Italian marble sundial, and several other trifles I desired.

I scanned my pad thoughtfully, and finally decided not to join the golf club till the following year.

Then it occurred to me that I ought, of course, to sell my farm produce for a handsome profit. Bert had gone to bed, so I couldn't ask him how much I would be likely to realize. But with all due conservatism I decided that I could safely rejoin the golf club. So I did, then and there. Whereupon I felt better, and, picking out the ma.n.u.script of a novel from my bag, I went bravely at the task of earning my living.

Chapter III

NEW JOY IN AN OLD ORCHARD

The following morning was a balmy and exquisite first of May, but realism again compels me to confess that, having been an English instructor for seven years, and having read ma.n.u.scripts the night before till 2 A.M., I did not leap lightly from my couch at the breakfast call, nor did I sing ecstatically, as I looked from my window:

_"Im wunderschonen Monat Mai."_

What I actually did was to curse to myself at having to clean my teeth in bitterly cold water, something I have always loathed. Nor was I greatly cheered by Mrs. Temple's coffee. The New England farmer's wife can cook everything but coffee. But there seems to be something in that simple art which completely baffles her. Perhaps the coffee has something to do with it!

Her cheery face, however, was not long to be resisted, and Bert hustled me off immediately after the meal to meet Hard Cider Howard, whom, by some rural wireless, he had already summoned.

As we walked down the road, I glanced toward my lone pine, and saw my horse and Mike's. .h.i.tched to the plough, with Joe driving and Mike holding the handles. Across the green pasture, between the road and the hayfield, already four rich brown furrows were shining up to the sun.

"Well, Mike didn't wait long!" I exclaimed. "I wonder why he started in there?"

"I told him to," said Bert. "That's goin' ter be yer pertater crop this year."

"Is it?" said I. "Why?" I felt a little peeved. After all, this was _my_ farm.

"Cuz it's pasture land thet's good fer pertaters, an' yer don't need it fer the cows, an' it kin be worked ter give yer a crop right off, even though 'twant ploughed under in the fall," Bert answered. "You trust yer Uncle Hiram fer a bit, sonny."

I blushed at my own peevishness, and thanked him humbly. At the house we found awaiting a strange-looking man, small, wrinkled, unkempt, with a discouraged moustache and a nose of a decidedly brighter hue than the rest of his countenance. He was tapping at the sills of the house.

"How about it, Hard? Cement?" said Bert.

Hard Cider nodded to me, with a keen glance from his little, bloodshot eyes.

"Yep," he said. "Stucco over it. Brick underpinnin's be ez good ez noo. Go inside."

We stepped upon the side porch, Bert handing me the key and I opening the door of my new dwelling with a secret thrill. Hard Cider at once began on the kitchen floor, ripping up a plank to examine the timbers beneath.

There was no cellar under the kitchen, but the timbers were, like those of the barn, huge beams of hand-hewn oak, and were sound.