“Wal, I wouldn't wanter say. I don't wanter git inter trouble with no neighbor. If Cale says a year is all right, then I'll say so, too. I wouldn't jest trust my memory.”
“But there is some doubt in your mind, Mr. Pollock?”
“There is. A good deal of doubt,” the farmer assured him. “But you ask Cale.”
This was all that Hiram could get out of the elder Pollock. It was not very comforting. The young farmer was of two minds whether he should see Caleb Schell, or not.
But when he got back to the house for supper, and saw the doleful faces of the three waiting there, he couldn't stand inaction.
“If you don't mind, I want to go to town tonight, Mrs. Atterson,” he told the old lady.
“All right, Hiram. I expect you've got to look out for yourself, boy. If you can get another job, you take it. It's a 'tarnal shame you didn't take up with that Bronson's offer when he come here after you.”
“You needn't feel so,” said Hiram. “You're no more at fault than I am. This thing just happened—nobody could foretell it. And I'm just as sorry as I can be for you, Mother Atterson.”
The old woman wiped her eyes.
“Well, Hi, there's other things in this world to worry over besides gravy, I find,” she said. “Some folks is born for trouble, and mebbe we're some of that kind.”