The motor-car that came swiftly along the ridge road to the gate of Sunnyside Farm was a big, seven-passenger touring car. Behind the wheel sat a big man in a fur coat. To tell the truth, however, it was not Mr. Bronson, his employer, at whom Hiram Strong first looked.
He had caught sight of a veil trailing upon the wind from the tonneau. A girl sat there—a very winsome looking, bright-faced girl—and before the car stopped she had spied Hiram and waved a gloved hand at him, shouting:
"Oh, Hiram Strong! isn't this a beautiful spot? How are you?"
"I'm all right, Miss Lettie," he said answering the second question first. "I guess it is pretty here at Sunnyside in summer. But look at those wheels and mudguards!"
Mr. Bronson began to chuckle, shutting off his engine.
"Hiram's right, Lettie," he said to his daughter. "You'd better stay in the car and keep out of this mud. What do you think of the drainage hereabout, Hi?"
He stepped out of the car himself and shook hands with Hiram, man to man. It was evident by his manner and look that Mr. Stephen Bronson both liked and respected Hiram Strong.
"I haven't had much time to look about, Mr. Bronson," replied the youth, "only got here an hour ago. But it does look as though that field yonder"—and he pointed to one at the east of the house lot that was covered with shallow puddles—"would be the better for some tiling."
"And yet it is high and should be dry."
"All high land isn't dry—that piece proves it. What's in it?"