“Forehanded!” remarked Aunt Lydia, shaking her head ominously when the keeper had left the house. “I don’t know, I don’t know! I expect that Belzebub’s a–swallerin’ up Boardman’s property fast as he can gulp it down.” This reference to Baggs did not have a soothing effect on her feelings, and she wisely changed her thoughts by going to the window that faced the orchard. She watched the keeper, as he took a path that followed an old stone wall. Soon leaping this, he hurried across a narrow field that was dotted with the yellow stubs of cornstalks. Beyond this, was the lot which Aunt Lydia had designated as the “mash field.” It bordered the broad, flat marsh, beyond which flashed the blue, bright river. It was a variety field in its crops, yielding a little corn, more potatoes, and beans mostly. “Clearin’ up” was no small task, as it meant the removal of bean–poles, and an indefinite quantity of vines. The latter went no farther than a bonfire in one corner of the field: and up to it Boardman Blake was now venturing at intervals, thrusting into its smoke and flames immense armfuls of dead vines. At the time that the keeper of the station made his appearance, Boardman was stoutly tugging at a row of very obstinate bean–poles, and every moment he grew redder in the face, while his scanty breath issued in warm little puffs.
“Glad—to see ye,—Jothum. How—dy’e—do?” ejaculated Boardman, still tugging away.
“Well as usual, thank ye. Got some tough customers there?”
“We—e—ll,—yes!” said Boardman.
“Think—”
The world lost that last precious thought. Here a provoking bean–pole that he had grasped, suddenly broke, and in a great, fat heap, over went Boardman, cutting Chauncy Aldrich’s figure when in the boat–race he “caught a crab.”
“Hurt—ye?” cried the keeper, rushing forward and offering his assistance.
“Oh—no!” said Boardman laughing, and rolling over as easily as Miss P. Green’s butter firkin, on the day of the fatal boat–race. “The pesky pole got the better of me.”
“Let me help you,” said the keeper, his vigorous muscle quickly hoisting into an upright attitude this “fallen merchant,” as Chauncy would have called him.
“There!” puffed Boardman, resolutely resuming work, and tugging at the stub of the broken pole. “Now I’m ready for business, if I can help you.”