Bright as a cricket, cheery and clean faced, Harry was surveying what had been a jumbled-up mass of kindling the night before. He had piled it up symmetrically and had swept up the last stray sliver of wood on the ground. Over towards the vegetable beds was a five-foot heap of weeds which his industry had collected.
Suddenly the happy whistle ceased. Tom saw his father come out of the house, stare at the strange boy, then at the evidence of his enterprise, and smile grimly. Mr. Barnes hailed the boy.
“You’re the lad my wife told me about, I reckon,” observed the farmer.
“If you mean the boy she was so kind to, yes sir,” promptly responded Harry.
“Who hired you?” demanded Mr. Barnes.
“Who hired me?” repeated Harry in a puzzled way.
“Yes, to do that,” and Mr. Barnes’ hand swept the woodpile and the weed heap suggestively.
“Oh, that’s to pay for supper and lodging,” explained Harry brightly.
“Well, we’ll count breakfast into the bargain,” stipulated Mr. Barnes, “and if you get tired doing nothing there’s five hundred weight of grain in the barn I’ll pay you to grind.”
“You will?” cried Harry, his eyes sparkling. “Show it to me, will you, please?”