"I would kind of hate that sort of master," said Billy.
"A tramp never has to worry about rent—"
"I know, but I should think the house might be worth the worry."
The Watermelon changed the subject.
A grim, elderly woman, thin and work-worn before her time, listened to their troubles in the faded, weather-gray farm-house. Her man, she explained, was out in the fields with the horses, but when he returned, she would send him around and he would tow the car in for them. She never took boarders. The house was a sight, but if they didn't mind, she did not and they could have two rooms. She wrapped some bread, fruit and cookies up for them in newspapers, and they started back to wait with the others by the machine until the farmer came.
The still hush of evening was over everything, creeping with the lengthening shadows across the pasture. A flock of turkeys was making noisy preparations for bed in some trees near by. The frogs had begun to croak and once in a while a whippoorwill called from the woods. In an adjoining hay-field, hurrying to get in the last load before dark, the Watermelon saw the farmer. A pair of sorry looking nags drooped drearily, attached to the cart with its high, shaky load of new-mown hay.
"I'm going to speak to him myself," said the Watermelon, stopping. "It will save time. You wait here. I won't be long."
"Give me the food," said Billy. "I will take it to the others. Poor things, they must be starving."
"I won't be long," objected the Watermelon. "You can't carry it alone."
"Indeed, I can," protested Billy.