"You bet you haven't," agreed Noah Ezekiel. "Absent treatment may remove warts and bad dispositions, but it sure won't work on cockleburs and Bermuda grass."
For several miles Bob's mind was busy.
"Noah," he asked, abruptly, "how would you like to go into partnership with me and take over the management of that hundred and sixty acres we cultivated last year?"
"As my dad used to say," replied Noah Ezekiel, skeptically, "'Faith is the substance of things hoped for'; and as I never hope for any substance, I ain't got no faith—especially in profits. Whenever I come round, profits hide out like a bunch of quails on a rainy day. I prefer wages."
Bob laughed. "Suppose we make it both. I'll pay you wages, and besides give you one fifth of the net profits."
"I reckon that'll be satisfactory," agreed Noah. "But any Saturday night you find yourself a little short on net profits, you can buy my share for about twenty dollars in real money."
As they crossed the line Noah Ezekiel inquired:
"But if me and the Chinaman raise your cotton, what are you goin' to do?"
"Raise more cotton," Bob answered. "You know," he spoke what had been in his mind all the time, "I never saw anything I wanted as much as that Red Butte Ranch. It is on that Dillenbeck System and its water costs about twice as much as on the regular canals, but it is rich enough to make up the difference."
"Well, why don't you get it?" asked Noah. "Reedy Jenkins is goin' to lose all his leases inside of a month if he doesn't sell 'em; and with cotton at six cents, they ain't shovin' each other off of Reedy's stairway tryin' to get to him first. It's my idea that a fellow could buy out the Red Butte for a song, and hire a parrot to sing it for a cracker."