"No; he's too slow for me," replied Lenore. "Who are these men?"
"They're strangers looking for jobs."
"I.W.W. men?" queried Lenore, in lower voice.
"Surely must be," he replied. Adams was not a young, not a robust man, and he seemed to carry a burden of worry. "Your father said he would come right out."
"I hope he doesn't," said Lenore, bluntly. "Father has a way with him, you know."
"Yes, I know. And it's the way we're needing here in the Valley," replied the foreman, significantly.
"Is that the new harvester-thresher father just bought?" asked Lenore, pointing to the huge machine, shining and creeping behind the twelve horses.
"Yes, that's the McCormack and it's a dandy," returned Adams. "With machines like that we can get along without the I.W.W."
"I want a ride on it," declared Lenore, and she ran along to meet the harvester. She waved her hand to the driver, Bill Jones, another old hand, long employed by her father. Bill hauled back on the many-branched reins, and when the horses stopped the clattering, whirring roar of the machine also ceased.
"Howdy, miss! Reckon this 's a regular I.W.W. hold-up."