He had been at work in the garden the day of the directors’ meeting, and he watched the Boy as he came slowly up the street, his head bent in thought. Caleb gathered up his tools with little regretful, backward looks. He had meant to set out that last row of asparagus tonight—But it was late and the boy looked tired. He set the asparagus plants in the little shed he had improvised for his tools and covered them carefully against the night air. Then he went into the house.
The mother and the Boy were talking in the next room softly and he thought he would not disturb them. He fussed about, setting the table and making tea. Even when they were seated at table, Caleb paid little heed to what was being said; his mind was still digging in the garden, out in the soft mold.
Then a word caught his ear and he looked up. “What’s that you were saying, Johnny—about a farm!”
“It ’s about President Tetlow. He has to go away, you know!”
Caleb’s interest relaxed. “I thought it was something about a farm.” He returned to his plate.
“I said I wished there were some farm he could go to—”
“Farms enough,” said Caleb.
“Do you know a good one?” The boy and his mother both leaned forward. They had turned the question over and over; they had not once thought of Caleb who knew the region by heart.
He chewed slowly. “There ’s a place up Chester County way,” he said at last, his eyes fixed on it as he chewed. “I used to work there when I was a boy.”
“That’s too far away,” said John.