“I mean nothing derogatory to your boy, believe me,” interrupted Iredale, as he noted the heightened colour of face and the angry sparkle that flashed in the good dame’s eyes “I simply mean that it is useless to throw good money after bad. Fruit farming is a lottery in which the prizes go to those who take the most tickets. In other words, it is a question of acreage. A small man may lose his crop through blight, drought, a hundred causes. The larger man has a better chance by reason of the extent of his crop. Now I should take it, you could do better for your son by obtaining all the facts, sorting them out and then deciding what to do. My experience prompts me to suggest another business. Why not the farm?”
All signs of resentment had left Mrs. Malling’s face. She deposited her biscuits and returned to the stove, standing before her guest with her hands buried deep in her apron pockets and a delighted smile on her face.
“That’s just what I thought at once,” she said. “You’re real smart, George; why not the farm? I says that to myself right off. I couldn’t do better, I know, but there’s drawbacks. Yes, drawbacks. Hervey isn’t much for the petticoats––meaning his own folks. He’s not one to play second fiddle, so to speak. Now while I live the farm is mine, and I learned my business from one who could teach me––my Silas. Now I’d make Hervey my foreman and give him a good wage. He’d have all he wants, but he’d have to be my foreman.” The old lady shook her head dubiously.
“And you think Hervey wouldn’t accept a subordinate position?”
“He’s that proud. Just like my poor Silas,” murmured the mother.
“Then he’s a fool. But you try him,” Iredale said dryly.
“Do you think he might?”
“You never can tell.”
“I wonder now if you––yes, I’ll ask him.”