“Why, we’ve a-had to buy, Mr. Frisby,” returned Jan apologetically. “But there, I’ll see if we can spare a few more, an’ fetch ’em round to-morrow.”
“To-morrow ’ll do very well,” agreed Joseph generously; and so they parted.
Then Frisby fell to work with a joyful heart, setting out first of all the potatoes which he had purloined, and which he had originally designed to plant surreptitiously by night, intending, when the first shoots made their appearance, to assure his neighbours that they had sprung miraculously from the ground. This was better: moreover the second edition of “sets” was much larger than the first, and he now found himself in a position to stock his entire garden.
“The Lard ’elps them as ’elps theirselves,” he said to himself once more, as he waded solemnly up and down the drills.
From that day forward Joseph Frisby was respected by all the village folk. He had “got religion,” to begin with—more religion than anybody had credited him with, and he had evidently been singled out by Heaven for special favours. His crop prospered wonderfully; people were quite amazed to see the marvellous return made by their contributions, and were the more astonished because other small producers had not found it such a very good year for taters. There were many gaps among the ranks at the allotments, and it was noticeable that Jan Domeny, in particular, had suffered severely.
No one was more loud in commiserating this misfortune than Joseph Frisby.
“The ways of Providence be wonderful, as the Scriptur’s say, Jan Domeny,” he remarked one day. “Aye, ’tis what I often d’ say to myself: a man may plant and a man may water, but ’tis the Lard as gives the increase.”
“Well,” returned Jan, a little grudgingly, “I d’ ’low that He’ve a-gi’ed it to you, Mr. Frisby.”
“He have, Jan; He have!” agreed Joseph heartily.