BY F. H. SWEET.
“Reckon we’ll get ’em burned out by Tuesday week, Tom, and be ready for Pylant’s oranges. Suppose the old fellow will want us to take pay in town lots, though.”
“He’ll get left if he does;” and the lad by the fire removed the skillet of fried bacon from the coals and put the coffee-pot in its place. “I’m willing to work out a five-acre lot, but don’t want any towns. Say, Dave, what do you think of the party going to Punta Rassa?” he added, as he thrust a stick into the bean-pot to see what prospect there was for an early supper.
“Well, from what I hear, I fancy there is plenty of good land to be homesteaded in that section, and if we didn’t have a good job here, I’d be for joining them. I begin to feel a little anxious to have some land where we can be starting trees of our own.”
“Same here; but the land will come in good time, and while we’ve got a week’s rations of bacon and hominy ahead, I shan’t kick against luck. But grub’s ready.”
Both lads fell to with a relish. Beans seemed to be the central dish at almost every meal, and yet they somehow never seemed to tire of them.
They had encountered a good many hard knocks since leaving their Western home, but were evidently none the worse for them.
Dave Freeman, the son of a hard-working Kansas farmer, had come South to better his prospects, and with a deep but unexpressed longing to help the home folks.