Her cheery face, however, was not long to be resisted, and Bert hustled me off immediately after the meal to meet Hard Cider Howard, whom, by some rural wireless, he had already summoned.
As we walked down the road, I glanced toward my lone pine, and saw my horse and Mike’s hitched to the plough, with Joe driving and Mike holding the handles. Across the green pasture, between the road and the hayfield, already four rich brown furrows were shining up to the sun.
“Well, Mike didn’t wait long!” I exclaimed. “I wonder why he started in there?”
“I told him to,” said Bert. “That’s goin’ ter be yer pertater crop this year.”
“Is it?” said I. “Why?” I felt a little peeved. After all, this was my farm.
“Cuz it’s pasture land thet’s good fer pertaters, an’ yer don’t need it fer the cows, an’ it kin be worked ter give yer a crop right off, even though ’twant ploughed under in the fall,” Bert answered. “You trust yer Uncle Hiram fer a bit, sonny.”
I blushed at my own peevishness, and thanked him humbly. At the house we found awaiting a strange-looking man, small, wrinkled, unkempt, with a discouraged moustache and a nose of a decidedly brighter hue than the rest of his countenance. He was tapping at the sills of the house.
“How about it, Hard? Cement?” said Bert.
Hard Cider nodded to me, with a keen glance from his little, bloodshot eyes.
“Yep,” he said. “Stucco over it. Brick underpinnin’s be ez good ez noo. Go inside.”