Creighton’s Sally, who was then tripping through the measure on Hawtrey’s arm, was native born. She was young and straight—straighter in outline than the women of the cities—with a suppleness which was less suggestive of the willow than a rather highly-tempered spring. She moved with a large vigor which barely fell short of grace, her eyes snapped when she smiled at Hawtrey, and her hair, which was of a ruddy brown, had fiery gleams in it. Anyone would have called her comely, and there were, indeed, no women in Stukely’s barn to compare with her in that respect, a fact that she recognized.
“Oh, yes,” said Sager reflectively; “she’ll get him sure if she sets her mind on it, and there’s no denying that they make a handsome pair. I’ve nothing against Hawtrey either: a straight man, a hustler, and smart at handling a team. Still, it’s kind of curious that while the man’s never been stuck for the stamps like the rest of us, he’s made nothing very much of his homestead yet. Now there’s Bob, and Jake, and Jasper came in after he did with half the money, and they thrash out four bushels of hard wheat for Hawtrey’s three.”
Stukely made a little gesture of concurrence, for he dimly realized the significance of his companion’s speech. It is results which count in that country, where the one thing demanded is practical efficiency, and the man of simple, steadfast purpose usually goes the farthest. Hawtrey had graces which won him friends, boldness of conception, and the power of application; but he had somehow failed to accomplish as much as his neighbors did. After all, there must be a good deal to be said for the man who raises four bushels of good wheat where his comrade with equal facilities raises three.
In the meanwhile Hawtrey was talking to Sally, and it was not astonishing that they talked of farming, which is the standard topic on that strip of prairie.
“So you’re not going to break that new piece this spring?” she asked.
“No,” answered Hawtrey; “I’d want another team, anyway, and I can’t raise the money; it’s hard to get out here.”
“Plenty under the sod,” declared Sally, who was essentially practical. “That’s where we get ours, but you have to put the breaker in and turn it over. You”—and she flashed a quick glance at him—“got most of yours from England. Won’t they send you any more?”
Hawtrey’s eyes twinkled as he shook his head. “I’m afraid they won’t,” he replied. “You see, I’ve put the screw on them rather hard the last few years.”
“How did you do that?” Sally inquired. “Told them you were thinking of coming home again?”
There was a certain wryness in the young man’s smile, for though Hawtrey had cast no particular slur upon the family’s credit he had signally failed to enhance it, and he was quite aware that his English relatives did not greatly desire his presence in the Old Country.