Saxon glanced to Billy.
“Go on,” he approved. “It's fine in front.—This is my wife, Mr. Benson—Mrs. Roberts.”
“Oh, ho, so you're the one that took your husband away from me,” Benson accused good humoredly, as he tucked the robe around her.
Saxon shouldered the responsibility and became absorbed in watching him start the car.
“I'd be a mighty poor farmer if I owned no more land than you'd plowed before you came to me,” Benson, with a twinkling eye, jerked over his shoulder to Billy.
“I'd never had my hands on a plow but once before,” Billy confessed. “But a fellow has to learn some time.”
“At two dollars a day?”
“If he can get some alfalfa artist to put up for it,” Billy met him complacently.
Benson laughed heartily.
“You're a quick learner,” he complimented. “I could see that you and plows weren't on speaking acquaintance. But you took hold right. There isn't one man in ten I could hire off the county road that could do as well as you were doing on the third day. But your big asset is that you know horses. It was half a joke when I told you to take the lines that morning. You're a trained horseman and a born horseman as well.”