Phil mumbled something about a television show.
When Ronnie got home, he pitched into his chores immediately. He chased the few remaining hens into the chicken house, filled their trough with water, and fastened the door shut. He stabled the horse and then watered and fed her. Then he went into the house to collect the garbage and trash to take to the dump for burning.
Returning from the dump, he caught sight of his father driving the tractor and pulling the mowers down the farm road from the fields. Ronnie cut through the triangle of alder bushes to meet him. “Say, Dad,” he asked, climbing up beside him, “could I go back down to the village after supper and work for a while with Bill? We’re going to make our sign to put out on the highway.”
“I don’t see why not. You pretty near ready to start your big business venture?”
“Just about, I guess.”
Mr. Rorth nodded his head in approval. “I was in town today and I happened to run into Steve Mercer. He’s president of the historical society. Told me that they’d written a letter to the Seaway saying their society’s violently opposed to any flooding of the village unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Ronnie’s heart leaped. “Maybe that’ll help us get permission to build the dam across the top of the valley.”
“It might,” his father agreed. A smile tugged at his lips. “Think you can raise that kind of money?”
“No,” Ronnie said honestly. “But it’ll get the ball rolling, and that’s what counts, Grandpa says.”
“And of course he’s right,” Mr. Rorth agreed. “Heaven knows I want to see the village spared as much as you and Gramps. But I can’t let the whole farm go to pieces in the meantime. You’ve got to be practical about these things.”