"I should say not," replied Mr. Kimball. "'N Porter Amidown were tellin' me yist'day they'd gone t' six dollars a bushel."
"Then we'll send out six bushels in the morning, when Porter goes to the city," said Adrian. "One bushel'll be more than we can eat. That'll be thirty-six dollars toward the mortgage, dad."
"Bless yer heart," exclaimed Mr. Kimball, pretending that he suddenly had a very bad cold. "Bless yer hearts, boys, I—I—don't want yer money."
"But you've got to take it," decided Adrian and Roger in one breath, immensely pleased with their day's work, which had only been a pleasure, and feeling proud that it would amount to so much in money.
There was a light flurry of snow that night, and when the boys awoke next morning they found the ground hidden under a white, fleecy blanket. They were not up early enough to see their chestnuts put on the stage to be sent to Syracuse, but Mrs. Kimball told them at the breakfast table that they went all right.
"Where's dad?" asked Adrian.
"Gittin' ready t' kill pigs," answered Mrs. Kimball.
"Hurrah! Roger! That'll be sport! Hurry up. Who's going to help him, mother?"
"I guess old man Hounson's comin' over. I heard yer father say suthin' 'bout him."
"Well, I reckon we can lend a hand at starting the fire, or something," said Adrian.