"I'll go right to work," said Sam, seeing that no violence was intended, and hoping to escape the punishment threatened, whatever it might be.
"You'd better," said the deacon.
Our hero (I am afraid he has not manifested any heroic qualities as yet) went to work with remarkable energy, to the imminent danger of the potato-tops, which he came near uprooting in several instances.
"Is this fast enough?" he asked.
"It'll do. I'll take the next row, and we'll work along together. Take care,—I don't want the potatoes dug up."
They kept it up for an hour or more, Sam working more steadily, probably, than he had ever done before in his life. He began to think it was no joke, as he walked from hill to hill, keeping up with the deacon's steady progress.
"There aint much fun about this," he thought. "I don't like workin' on a farm. It's awful tiresome."
"What's the use of hoein' potatoes?" he asked, after a while. "Won't they grow just as well without it?"
"No," said the deacon.
"I don't see why not."