"Now we can loaf for a whole week, and make a business of it," said Wad.
"There's one more job that ought to be done," said Rufe. "That potato-patch. We can't keep the pigs out of it, and it's time the potatoes were dug."
"I s'pose so," said Wad. "Wish we had a hired man."
"It isn't much of a job," said Rufe. "And we don't want to be seen loafing round, now she's here."
"We can go up in the woods and loaf," said Wad.
"Don't talk silly," said Rufe. "Come, I'll go at the potatoes to-morrow, if you will. We'll dig, and make Link pick 'em up."
"I was going to shoot some more prairie chickens to-morrow. We've no other meat for dinner."
"We'll get father to shoot them. Come, Wad, what do you say?"
Wad declined to commit himself to an enterprise requiring so large an outlay of bone and muscle. All Rufe could get from him was a promise to "sleep on the potatoes" and say what he thought of them in morning.
The next morning accordingly, before the cattle were turned out of the yard, Rufe said,—