“But he makes up better lessons,” urged Raymond. “An’ all the things we do in school, he’ps us make a livin’.”
“He begins at eight in the mornin’,” said Newton, “an’ he has some of us there till half past five, and comes back in the evening. And every Saturday, some of the kids are doin’ something at the schoolhouse.”
“They don’t pay him for overtime, do they?” queried Raymond. “Well, then, they orto, instid of turnin’ him out!”
“Well, they’ll turn him out!” prophesied Newton. “I’m havin’ more fun in school than I ever—an’ that’s why I’m with you on this quittin’ trapping—but they’ll get Jim, all right!”
“I’m having something betteh’n fun,” replied Raymond. “My pap has never understood this kentry, an’ we-all has had bad times hyeh; but Mr. Jim an’ I have studied out how I can make a betteh livin’ next year—and pap says we kin go on the way Mr. Jim says. I’ll work for Colonel Woodruff a part of the time, an’ pap kin make corn in the biggest field. It seems we didn’t do our work right last year—an’ in a couple of years, with the increase of the hawgs, an’ the land we kin get under plow....”
Raymond was off on his pet dream of becoming something better than the oldest of the Simms tribe of outcasts, and Newton was subconsciously impressed by the fact that never for a moment did Raymond’s plans fail to include the elevation with him of Calista and Jinnie and Buddy and Pap and Mam. It was taken for granted that the Simmses sank or swam together, whether their antagonists were poverty and ignorance, or their ancient foes, the Hobdays. Newton drew closer to Raymond’s side.
It was still an hour before nine—when the rural school traditionally “takes up”—when the boys had stored their traps in a shed at the Bronson home, and walked on to the schoolhouse. That rather scabby and weathered edifice was already humming with industry of a sort. In spite of the hostility of the school board, and the aloofness of the patrons of the school, the pupils were clearly interested in Jim Irwin’s system of rural education. Never had the attendance been so large or regular; and one of the reasons for sessions before nine and after four was the inability of the teacher to attend to the needs of his charges in the five and a half hours called “school hours.”
This, however, was not the sole reason. It was the new sort of work which commanded the attention of Raymond and Newton as they entered. This morning, Jim had arranged in various sorts of dishes specimens of grain and grass seeds. By each was a card bearing the name of the farm from which one of the older boys or girls had brought it. “Wheat, Scotch Fife, from the farm of Columbus Smith.” “Timothy, or Herd’s Grass, from the farm of A. B. Talcott.” “Alsike Clover, from the farm of B. B. Hamm.” Each lot was in a small cloth bag which had been made by one of the little girls as a sewing exercise; and each card had been written as a lesson in penmanship by one of the younger pupils, and contained, in addition to the data above mentioned, heads under which to enter the number of grains of the seed examined, the number which grew, the percentage of viability, the number of alien seeds of weeds and other sorts, the names of these adulterants, the weight of true and vitalized, and of foul and alien and dead seeds, the value per bushel in the local market of the seeds under test, and the real market values of the samples, after dead seeds and alien matter had been subtracted.
“Now get busy, here,” cried Jim Irwin. “We’re late! Raymond, you’ve a quick eye—you count seeds—and you, Calista, and Mary Smith—and mind, next year’s crop may depend on making no mistakes!”
“Mistakes!” scoffed Mary Smith, a dumpy girl of fourteen. “We don’t make mistakes any more, teacher.”