Mr. Linton assented. “His people arranged when he was little that he should be a barrister. But he hated the idea. His own wish was to go out to Canada.”
Norah pondered.
“Couldn’t you give him a job on the farm, Dad?”
“I don’t know,” said her father. “I never thought of it. I suppose I might find him something to do; Hawkins and I will be busy enough presently.”
“He’s beginning to worry at being here so long,” Norah said. “Of course, we couldn’t possibly let him go: he isn’t fit for his own society. I think if you could find him some work he would be more content.”
So David Linton, after thinking the matter over, took Hardress into his plans for the farm which was to be the main source of supply for Homewood. He found him a quick and intelligent helper. The work was after the boy’s own heart: he surrounded himself with agricultural books and treaties on fertilizers, made a study of soils, and took samples of earth from different parts of the farm—to the profound disgust of Hawkins. War had not done away with all expert agricultural science in England: Hardress sent his little packets of soil away, and received them back with advice as to treatment which, later on, resulted in the yield of the land being doubled—which Hawkins attributed solely to his own skill as a cultivator. But the cure was worked in Philip Hardress. The ring of hope came back into his voice: the “shop-leg” dragged ever so little, as he walked across the park daily to where the ploughs were turning the grass of the farm fields into stretches of brown, dotted with white gulls that followed the horses’ slow plodding up and down. The other guests took up a good deal of Mr. Linton’s time: he was not sorry to have an overseer, since Hawkins, while honest and painstaking, was not afflicted with any undue allowance of brains. Together, in the study at night, they planned out the farm into little crops. Already much of the land was ready for the planting, and a model poultry-run built near the house was stocked with birds; while a flock of sheep grazed in the park, and to the tiny herd of cows had been added half a dozen pure-bred Jerseys. David Linton had taken Hardress with him on the trip to buy the stock, and both had enjoyed it thoroughly.
Meanwhile the boys at the Front sent long and cheery letters almost daily. Astonishment had come to them almost as soon as they rejoined, in finding themselves promoted; they gazed at their second stars in bewilderment which was scarcely lessened by the fact that their friends in the regiment were not at all surprised.
“Why, didn’t you have a war on your own account in Ireland?” queried Anstruther. “You got a Boche submarine sunk and caught half the crew, didn’t you?”
“Well, but that was only a lark!” said Wally.
“You were wounded, anyhow, young Meadows. Of course we know jolly well you don’t deserve anything, but you can’t expect the War Office to have our intimate sources of information.” He patted Wally on the back painfully. “Just be jolly thankful you get more screw, and don’t grumble. No one’ll ever teach sense to the War Office!”