A watchdog can’t afford to relax vigilance, for a single instant,—especially at the responsible age of five months.
THREE: The Meanest Man
THREE: The Meanest Man
The big collie lay at ease, his tawny-and-white length stretched out in lazy luxury across the mouth of the lane which led from the Hampton highroad to Link Ferris’ hillside farmhouse.
Of old, this lane had been rutted and grass-hummocked and bordered by tangles of rusty weeds. Since Link and his farm had taken so decided a brace, the weeds had been cut away. This without even a hint from the county engineer, who of old had so often threatened to fine Link for leaving them standing along the highway at his land’s edge. The lane had been graded and ditched, too, into a neatness that went well with the rest of the place.
But—now that Link Ferris had taken to himself a wife, as efficient as she was pretty—it had been decreed by young Mrs. Ferris that the lane’s entrance should be enhanced still further by the erecting of two low fieldstone piers, one on either side, and that the hollow at the top of each pier should be filled with loam for the planting of nasturtiums.
It was on this decorative job that Link was at work to-day. His collie, Chum, was always near at hand wherever his master chanced to be toiling. And Chum, now, was lying comfortably on the soft earth of the lane head, some fifty feet from where Link wrought with rock and mortar.