"Bramble Farm. I'm a poorhouse rat the Peabodys took to bring up."
He had seldom used that phrase since Betty's coming, but it always irritated him to try to explain who he was and where he came from.
"I was bound out myself," retorted the farmer quickly. "Knocked around a good bit, but now I own this ninety acres, free and clear. You've got just as good a chance as the boy with too much done for him. Don't you forget that, young man."
They were silent for a few moments, watching the play of lightning through the wide doors.
"Didn't two men named Wapley and Lieson used to work for Peabody?" asked the farmer abruptly. "I thought so," as Bob nodded. "They were around the other day asking for jobs."
"Are you sure?" asked Bob. "I thought they had left the state. Lieson, I know, had folks across the line."
"Well, they may have gone now," was the reply. "But I know that two days ago they wanted work. I've a couple of men, all I can use just now, but I sent them on to a neighbor. They looked strong, and good farm help is mighty scarce."
Bob waited till the rain had stopped and the clouds were lifting, then drove on, thanking the friendly farmer for his cordiality.
"Don't be calling yourself names, but plan what you want to make of yourself," was that individual's parting advice.
"If I had a nickel," said Bob to himself, urging the sorrel to a brisk trot, for the time spent in waiting must be made up, "I'd telephone to Betty from Laurel Grove. But pshaw! I know she must be all right."