“Want me to spell you, Dad?” Ronnie shouted above the racket.
Mr. Rorth slowed down his pumping and then climbed off. “All right,” he answered. “I’m on the last one, but my legs are getting tired.”
Ronnie climbed onto the seat and started turning the pedals. The eight-inch-diameter stone began to whirl. Sparks shot in every direction as Mr. Rorth laid the edge of the blade against the stone.
A few minutes later, he signaled the boy to stop. “There, that’s better,” he said, running his finger cautiously along the edge of the blade. “Now if the weather holds out, I can get the north field cut and maybe into the loft.”
“You’re going to have company in the morning, Dad,” Ronnie said.
“Now who’s coming?” Mr. Rorth sounded annoyed. “I wasted the whole afternoon on this property deal when I should have been haying. Now who’s going to take over another half a day?”
Ronnie sympathized with his father. It wasn’t an easy job teaching agriculture in the local high school during the winter and then trying to run a sixty-acre farm during the growing season. Ronnie wanted to say, “I’ll give you a hand, Dad,” but he couldn’t summon enough will power to do it because he was looking forward so eagerly to starting his business venture.
Instead, he answered his father’s question. “Mr. Caldwell, Dad.”
“Caldwell? Never heard of him.”
“Me neither, until a little while ago. He came driving into the village while Bill and I were there, and he asked us to show him all around. And after we’d done that, he said he’d an idea he wanted to see you about—you and Grandfather.”