"Now then, boy, what can you do?" asked the old gentleman, with an approving nod to Mrs. Moss as she finished, and such a keen glance from under his bushy brows that Ben felt as if he was perfectly transparent.
"'Most anything, sir, to get my livin'."
"Can you weed?"
"Never did, but I can learn, sir."
"Pull up all the beets and leave the pigweed, hey? Can you pick strawberries?"
"Never tried anything but eatin' 'em, sir."
"Not likely to forget that part of the job. Can you ride a horse to plow?"
"Guess I could, sir!"—and Ben's eyes began to sparkle, for he dearly loved the noble animals who had been his dearest friends lately.
"No antics allowed. My horse is a fine fellow, and I'm very particular about him."
The Squire spoke soberly, but there was a twinkle in his eye, and Mrs. Moss tried not to smile, for the Squire's horse was a joke all over the town, being about twenty years old, and having a peculiar gait of his own, lifting his fore-feet very high; with a great show of speed, though never going out of a jog-trot. The boys used to say he galloped before and walked behind, and made all sorts of fun of the big, Roman-nosed beast who allowed no liberties to be taken with him.