“I reckon so.”
“And you'll have five acres of tomatoes?”
“Yep. So Dad says. He has contracted for that many. But our plants don't begin to be big enough to set out yet. We have to keep 'em covered nights.”
“And I expect to have about five hundred plants in this patch,” said Hiram, smiling. “I tell you what, Henry.”
“Huh?” said the other boy. “I bet I take in from my patch—net income, I mean—this year as much as your father gets at the cannery for his whole crop.”
“Nonsense!” cried Henry. “Maybe Dad'll make a hundred, or a hundred and twenty-five dollars. Sometimes tomatoes run as high as thirty dollars an acre around here.”
“Wait and see,” said Hiram, laughing. “It is going to cost me more to raise my crop, and market it, that's true. But if your father doesn't do better with his five acres than you say, I'll beat him.”
“You can't do it, Hiram,” cried Henry. “I can try, anyway,” said Hiram, more quietly, but with confidence. “We'll see.”
“And say,” Henry added, suddenly, “I was going to tell you something. You won't raise these tomatoes—nor no other crop—if Pete Dickerson can stop ye.”
“What's the matter with Pete now?” asked Hiram, troubled by thought of the secret enemy who had already struck at him in the dark.