I knew now why his neighbors called him Little Biggs—because he was very short, and very thin, and very little.
“Ah! Ned Westlock.”
After he had said this, he looked at me very attentively while he removed his gloves. Placing them in his tall hat, he set both away, and came back to me.
“I am very glad to know you,” Mr. Biggs said. “I am glad to have you a guest at our house.”
This was encouraging, as nobody else had said as much, and I felt better.
“I need not apologize,” he said, “for the rough but honest ways of us farmers,” looking admiringly at his thin legs, and brushing at a speck of dirt which seemed to be on one of them, “for I believe you come of an agricultural family yourself.”
I was surprised at this reference to his rough ways, for he was extremely fastidious in his dress and manner. I managed to admit, however, that I came of an agricultural family.
“Those of us who live in the country, and earn our bread in the sweat of our brow,” Mr. Biggs went on, seating himself beside me, “cannot be particular. Our clothing, our food, and our ways are rough, but substantial and honest. We have other matters to look after, such as following the plough, sowing the grain, and tossing the hay. We may have our ambitions like other men, but they are dwarfed and bent by holding the plough, and pitching the hay. When did you come, and how long do you stay?”
I replied that I had arrived but a few hours before, and that I would depart the next day at any hour Agnes was ready.
“I am sorry,” Mr. Biggs was good enough to say, “I should be delighted to show you how we carry on a four hundred acre farm. Other great farmers have from four to a dozen hired men about them, but Big Adam and I do all the work here; and we are equal to it, though it keeps us very busy, as you will imagine. We have no time for the fine arts, you may be certain.”