“Well, you've come to a good place to learn, eh, Tim! We'll show him, won't we?”
Tim made no reply, but simply handed Cameron a hoe and picked up his own.
“Now, show me, Tim,” said Cameron in a low voice, as Perkins and Webster set off on their drills.
“This is how you do it,” replied Tim. “Click-click,” forward and back went Tim's sharp shining instrument, leaving a single plant standing shyly alone where had boldly bunched a score or more a moment before. “Click-click-click,” and the flat-topped drill stood free of weeds and superfluous turnip plants and trimmed to its proper roof-like appearance.
“I say!” exclaimed Cameron, “this is high art. I shall never reach your class, though, Tim.”
“Oh, shucks!” said Tim, “slash in, don't be afraid.” Cameron slashed in. “Click-click,” “Click-click-click,” when lo! a long blank space of drill looked up reproachfully at him.
“Oh, Tim! look at this mess,” he said in disgust.
“Never mind!” said Tim, “let her rip. Better stick one in though. Blanks look bad at the END of the drill.” So saying, he made a hole in Cameron's drill and with his hoe dug up a bunch of plants from another drill and patted them firmly into place, and, weeding out the unnecessary plants, left a single turnip in its proper place.
“Oh, come, that isn't so bad,” said Cameron. “We can always fill up the blanks.”
“Yes, but it takes time,” replied Tim, evidently with the racing fever in his blood. Patiently Tim schooled his pupil throughout the forenoon, and before the dinner hour had come Cameron was making what to Tim appeared satisfactory progress. It was greatly in Cameron's favor that he possessed a trained and true eye and a steady hand and that he was quick in all his movements.