“It’ll be the same over again next time!” growled Brock. “These lovers—oh!”
Chapter XIII. How One Dollar
and a Half Secured “The
Devil in Society.” The Medicine
Chest which Became a Tract Depository
under the Teachings of a
New Creed. How I Stuck to
Orthodoxy
THE spring was full upon us, with the return of the birds, the tang of the new plowed soil in the sugar-field where the “University Mare” tugged listlessly at the plow whose blade sliced through the clayey earth leaving back of it shiny, damp slices on which the birds stood and pecked up the exposed grubs and worms. The dynamite wagon with its frail springs and its dangerous load jogged by along the turnpike on its way to newly-bored oil-wells. Flocks of sheep with an accompanying host of maximum-legged lamblets passed over the turnpike on their way to the railroad-cars, to be followed by grunting packs of hogs directed by sapling-armed drovers who in one minute of speech profaned the whole English language. Chugging traction-engines, hauling plows and harrows and on their way to hundred-acred wheat and corn fields, passed in the night-time with their shrill whistle-screams for water and their explosive puffing and puffing as if no breath in their steel bodies could successfully spurt them through the soft mire.
Thropper said to me, one afternoon,
“Priddy, how would you like to sell books?”
“Sell books, Thropper?”
Thropper nodded.
“What for?” I asked, interestedly.
“For money, of course, Priddy! What do you think?”
“It takes talk to sell books, Thropper!”