“He's one of the people who will discourage Mrs. Atterson,” thought Hiram. “And he has an axe to grind. If I decide to take the job of making this farm pay, I'm going to have the agreement in black and white with Mrs. Atterson; for there will be a raft of Job's comforters, perhaps when we get settled on the place.”
It was late in the afternoon before Hiram was ready to start for the farm itself. He had made some enquiries, and had decided to stop at a neighbor's for overnight, instead of going to the house where a lone woman had been left in charge by Mrs. Atterson.
The Pollocks had been recommended to Hiram, and by leaving the road within half a mile of the Atterson farm, and cutting across the fields, he came into the dooryard of the Pollock place. A well-grown boy, not much older than himself, was splitting some chunks at the woodpile. He stopped work to gaze at the visitor with much curiosity.
“From what they told me in town,” Hi said, holding out his hand with a smile, “you must be Henry Pollock?”
The boy blushed, but awkwardly took and shook Hi's hand.
“That's what they call me—Henry Pollock—when they don't call me Hen.”
“Well, I'll make a bargain with you, Henry,” laughed Hiram. “I don't like to have my name cut off short, either. My name's Hiram Strong. So if you'll agree to always call me `Hiram' I'll always call you `Henry.'”
“It's a go!” returned the other, shaking hands again. “You going to live around here? Or are you jest visiting?”
“I don't know yet,” confessed Hiram, sitting down beside the boy. “You see, I've come out to look at the Atterson place.”
“That's right over yonder. You can see the roof if you stand up,” said Henry, quickly.