“Then giddap.”
As the horses started, the edge of the rail bit into the ground, tearing up everything in its course, and by night the boys had cleared a couple of acres, for the growth was not heavy.
“Which shall it be—clear some more land or plant what we have cleared?” inquired Phil, when they were ready to work, the next morning. “Or I say, better still, as there is no wind, let’s burn the brush we cleared yesterday. Those piles don’t look very well, and if Petersen—”
“Oh, bother Petersen! As Joy said, he’s afraid of us. But we won’t burn any brush till Andy or Steve is here, it’s too dangerous.”
“Guess you are right. Which is it, clear or plant?”
“Plant. If I don’t sow my ‘Durum’ wheat right off, it won’t have any chance.”
“Hoped you had forgotten Durum for a while,” laughed his brother. “But as you haven’t, I suppose you must have your way. You can sow Durum and I’ll sow alfalfa.”
Laughing and chatting happily, the young homesteaders cut two bags in halves, tied short pieces of rope to the corners of the lower portions, filled them with their respective seeds, and, slinging the ropes over their shoulders, set forth for their clearing.
Taking a handful of the seed, they scattered it broadcast, as they walked back and forth across the fields they had prepared.
“We must go back for more alfalfa,” called Phil, before he had covered quite half of his clearing.