Henry Pollock, who did all he could to aid Hiram on the crop, shook his head in despair.
“It's a-layin' down on you, Hiram—it's a-layin' down on you. Another day like this and your celery crop will be pretty small pertaters!”
“And that would be a transformation worthy of the attention of all the agricultural schools, Henry,” returned the young farmer, grimly laughing.
“You got a heart—to laugh at your own loss,” said Henry.
“There isn't any loss—yet,” declared Hiram.
“But there's bound to be,” said his friend, a regular “Job's comforter” for the nonce.
“Look here, Henry; you'd have me give up too easy. 'Never say die!' That's the farmer's motto.”
“Jinks!” exclaimed young Pollock, “they're dying all around us just the same—and their crops, too. We ain't going to have half a corn crop if this spell of dry weather keeps on. And the papers don't give us a sign of hope.”
“When there doesn't seem to be a sign of hope is when the really up-to-date farmer begins to actually work,” chuckled Hiram.
“And just tell me what you're going to do for this field of wilted celery?” demanded Henry.