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