



Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer





HIRAM THE YOUNG FARMER

By Burbank L. Todd


CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE CALL OF SPRING

CHAPTER II. AT MRS. ATTERSON'S

CHAPTER III. A DREARY DAY

CHAPTER IV. THE LOST CARD

CHAPTER V. THE COMMOTION AT MOTHER ATTERSON'S

CHAPTER VI. THIS DIDN'T GET BY HIRAM

CHAPTER VII. HOW HIRAM LEFT TOWN

CHAPTER VIII. THE LURE OF GREEN FIELDS

CHAPTER IX. THE BARGAIN IS MADE

CHAPTER X. THE SOUND OF BEATING HOOFS

CHAPTER XI. A GIRL RIDES INTO THE TALE

CHAPTER XII. SOMETHING ABOUT A PASTURE FENCE

CHAPTER XIII. THE UPROOTING

CHAPTER XIV. GETTING IN THE EARLY CROPS

CHAPTER XV. TROUBLE BREWS

CHAPTER XV. ONE SATURDAY AFTERNOON

CHAPTER XVII. MR. PEPPER APPEARS

CHAPTER XVIII. A HEAVY CLOUD

CHAPTER XIX. THE REASON WHY

CHAPTER XX. AN ENEMY IN THE DARK

CHAPTER XXI. THE WELCOME TEMPEST

CHAPTER XXII. FIRST FRUITS

CHAPTER XXIII. TOMATOES AND TROUBLE

CHAPTER XXIV. "CORN THAT'S CORN"

CHAPTER XXV. THE BARBECUE

CHAPTER XXVI. SISTER'S TURKEYS

CHAPTER XXVII. RUN TO EARTH

CHAPTER XXVIII. HARVEST

CHAPTER XXIX. LETTIE BRONSON'S CORN HUSKING

CHAPTER XXX. ONE SNOWY MIDNIGHT

CHAPTER XXXI. "MR. DAMOCLES'S SWORD"

CHAPTER XXXII. THE CLOUD IS LIFTED

CHAPTER XXXIII. "CELERY MAD"

CHAPTER XXXIV. CLEANING UP A PROFIT

CHAPTER XXXV. LOOKING AHEAD




CHAPTER I. THE CALL OF SPRING

"Well, after all, the country isn't such a bad place as some city folk
think."

The young fellow who said this stood upon the highest point of the Ridge
Road, where the land sloped abruptly to the valley in which lay the
small municipality of Crawberry on the one hand, while on the other open
fields and patches of woodland, in a huge green-and-brown checkerboard
pattern, fell more easily to the bank of the distant river.

Dotted here and there about the farming country lying before the youth
as he looked westward were cottages, or the more important-looking
homesteads on the larger farms; and in the distance a white church spire
behind the trees marked the tiny settlement of Blaine's Smithy.

A Sabbath calm lay over the fields and woods. It was mid-afternoon of
an early February Sunday--the time of the mid-winter thaw, that false
prophet of the real springtime.

Although not a furrow had been turned as yet in the fields, and the snow
lay deep in some fence corners and beneath the hedges, there was, after
all, a smell of fresh earth--a clean, live smell--that Hiram Strong had
missed all week down in Crawberry.

"I'm glad I came up here," he muttered, drawing in great breaths of
the clean air. "Just to look at the open fields, without any brick and
mortar around, makes a fellow feel fine!"

He stretched his arms above his head and, standing alone there on the
upland, felt bigger and better than he had in weeks.

For Hiram Strong was a country boy, born and bred, and the town stifled
him. Besides, he had begun to see that his two years in Crawberry had
been wasted.

"As a hustler after fortune in the city I am not a howling success,"
mused Hiram. "Somehow, I'm cramped down yonder," and he glanced back
at the squalid brick houses below him, the smoky roofs, and the ugly
factory chimneys.

"And I declare," he pursued, reflectively, "I don't believe I can stand
Old Dan Dwight much longer. Dan, Junior, is bad enough--when he is
around the store; but the boss would drive a fellow to death."

He shook his head, now turning from the pleasanter prospect of the
farming land and staring down into the town.

"Maybe I'm not a success because I don't stick to one thing. I've had
six jobs in less'n two years. That's a bad record for a boy, I believe.
But there hasn't any of them suited me, nor have I suited them.

"And Dwight's Emporium beats 'em all!" finished Hiram, shaking his head.

He turned his back upon the town once more, as though to wipe his
failure out of his memory. Before him sloped a field of wheat and
clover.

It had kept as green under the snow as though winter was an unknown
season. Every cloverleaf sparkled and the leaves of wheat bristled like
tiny spears.

Spring was on the way. He could hear the call of it!

Two years before Hiram had left the farm. He had no immediate relatives
after his father died. The latter had been a tenant-farmer only, and
when his tools and stock and the few household chattels had been sold
to pay the debts that had accumulated during his last illness, there was
very little money left for Hiram.

There was nobody to say him nay when he packed his bag and started for
Crawberry, which was the metropolis of his part of the country. He had
set out boldly, believing that he could get ahead faster, and become
master of his own fortune more quickly in town than in the locality
where he was born.

He was a rugged, well-set-up youth of seventeen, not over-tall, but
sturdy and able to do a man's work. Indeed, he had long done a man's
work before he left the farm.

Hiram's hands were calloused, he shuffled a bit when walked, and his
shoulders were just a little bowed from holding the plow handles since
he had been big enough to bridle his father's old mare.

Yes, the work on the farm had been hard--especially for a growing boy.
Many farm boys work under better conditions than Hiram had.

Nevertheless, after a two years' trial of what the city has in store for
most country boys who cut loose from their old environment, Hiram Strong
felt to-day as though he must get back to the land.

"There's nothing for me in town. Clerking in Dwight's Emporium will
never get me anywhere," he thought, turning finally away from the open
country and starting down the steep hill.

"Why, there are college boys working on our street cars here--waiting
for some better job to turn up. What chance does a fellow stand who's
only got a country school education?

"And there isn't any clean fun for a fellow in Crawberry--fun that
doesn't cost money. And goodness knows I can't make more than enough to
pay Mrs. Atterson, and for my laundry, and buy a new suit of overalls
and a pair of shoes occasionally.

"No, sir!" concluded Hiram. "There's nothing in it. Not for a fellow
like me, at any rate. I'd better be back on the farm--and I wish I was
there now."

He had been to church that morning; but after the late dinner at his
boarding house had set out on this lonely walk. Now he had nothing to
look forward to as he returned but the stuffy parlor of Mrs. Atterson's
boarding house, the cold supper in the dining-room, which was attended
in a desultory fashion by such of the boarders as were at home, and then
a long, dull evening in his room, or bed after attending the evening
service at the church around the corner.

Hiram even shrank from meeting the same faces at the boarding house
table, hearing the same stale jokes or caustic remarks about Mrs.
Atterson's food from Fred Crackit and the young men boarders of his
class, or the grumbling of Mr. Peebles, the dyspeptic invalid, or the
inane monologue of Old Lem Camp.

And Mrs. Atterson herself--good soul though she was--had gotten on Hiram
Strong's nerves, too. With her heat-blistered face, near-sighted eyes
peering through beclouded spectacles, and her gown buttoned up hurriedly
and with a gap here and there where a button was missing, she was the
typically frowsy, hurried, nagged-to-death boarding house mistress.

And as for "Sister," Mrs. Atterson's little slavey and
maid-of-all-work----

"Well, Sister's the limit!" smiled Hiram, as he turned into the street,
with its rows of ugly brick houses on either hand. "I believe Fred
Crackit has got it right. Mrs. Atterson keeps Sister instead of a
cat--so there'll be something to kick."

The half-grown girl--narrow-chested, round shouldered, and sallow--had
been taken by Mrs. Atterson from some charity institution. "Sister," as
the boarders all called her, for lack of any other cognomen, would have
her yellow hair in four attenuated pigtails hanging down her back, and
she would shuffle about the dining-room in a pair of Mrs. Atterson's old
shoes----

"By Jove! there she is now," exclaimed the startled youth.

At the corner of the street several "slices" of the brick block had
been torn away and the lot cleared for the erection of some business
building. Running across this open space with wild shrieks and spilling
the milk from the big pitcher she carried--milk for the boarders' tea,
Hi knew--came Mrs. Atterson's maid.

Behind her, and driving her like a horse by the ever present "pigtails,"
bounded a boy of about her own age--a laughing, yelling imp of a boy
whom Hiram knew very well.

"That Dan Dwight is the meanest little scamp at this end of the town!"
he said to himself.

The noise the two made attracted only the idle curiosity of a few
people. It was a locality where, even on Sundays, there was more or less
noise.

Sister begged and screamed. She feared she would spill the milk and told
Dan, Junior, so. But he only drove her the harder, yelling to her to
"Get up!" and yanking as hard as he could on the braids.

"Here! that's enough of that!" called Hiram, stepping quickly toward the
two.

For Sister had stopped exhausted, and in tears.

"Be off with you!" commanded Hiram. "You've plagued the girl enough."

"Mind your business, Hi-ram-Lo-ram!" returned Dan, Junior, grabbing at
Sister's hair again.

Hiram caught the younger boy by the shoulder and whirled him around.

"You run along to Mrs. Atterson, Sister," he said, quietly. "No, you
don't!" he added, gripping Dan, Junior, more firmly. "You'll stop right
here."

"Lemme be, Hi Strong!" bawled the other, when he found he could not
easily jerk away. "It'll be the worse for you if you don't."

"Just you wait until the girl is home," returned Hiram, laughing. It was
an easy matter for him to hold the writhing Dan, Junior.

"I'll fix you for this!" squalled the boy. "Wait till I tell my father."

"You wouldn't dare tell your father the truth," laughed Hi.

"I'll fix you," repeated Dan, Junior, and suddenly aimed a vicious kick
at his captor.

Had the kick landed where Dan, Junior, intended--under Hi's kneecap--the
latter certainly would have been "fixed." But the country youth was too
agile for him.

He jumped aside, dragged Dan, Junior, suddenly toward him, and then gave
him a backward thrust which sent the lighter boy spinning.

Now, it had rained the day before and in a hollow beside the path was
a puddle several inches deep. Dan, Junior, lost his balance, staggered
back, tripped over his own clumsy heels, and splashed full length into
it.

"Oh, oh!" he bawled, managing to get well soaked before he scrambled
out. "I'll tell my father on you, Hi Strong. You'll catch it for this!"

"You'd better run home before you catch cold," said Hiram, who could not
help laughing at the young rascal's plight. "And let girls alone another
time."

To himself he said: "Well, the goodness knows I couldn't be much more
in bad odor with Mr. Dwight than I am already. But this escapade of his
precious son ought to about 'fix' me, as Dan, Junior, says.

"Whether I want to, or not, I reckon I will be looking for another job
in a very few days."



CHAPTER II. AT MRS. ATTERSON'S

When you came into "Mother" Atterson's front hall (the young men
boarders gave her that appellation in irony) the ghosts of many ancient
boiled dinners met you with--if you were sensitive and unused to the
odors of cheap boarding houses--a certain shock.

He was starting up the stairs, on which the ragged carpet threatened to
send less agile persons than Mrs. Atterson's boarders headlong to
the bottom at every downward trip, when the clang of the gong in the
dining-room announced the usual cold spread which the landlady thought
due to her household on the first day of the week.

Hiram hesitated, decided that he would skip the meal, and started up
again. But just then Fred Crackit lounged out of the parlor, with Mr.
Peebles following him. Dyspeptic as he was, Mr. Peebles never missed a
meal himself, and Crackit said:

"Come on, Hi-Low-Jack! Aren't you coming down to the usual feast of
reason and flow of soul?"

Crackit thought he was a natural humorist, and he had to keep up his
reputation at all times and seasons. He was rather a dissipated-looking
man of thirty years or so, given to gay waistcoats and wonderfully knit
ties. A brilliant as large as a hazel-nut--and which, in some lights,
really sparkled like a diamond--adorned the tie he wore this evening.

"I don't believe I want any supper," responded Hiram, pleasantly.

"What's the matter? Got some inside information as to what Mother
Atterson has laid out for us? You're pretty thick with the old girl,
Hi."

"That's not a nice way to speak of her, Mr. Crackit," said Hi, in a low
voice.

The other boarders--those who were in the house-straggled into the
basement dining-room one after the other, and took their places at the
long table, each in his customary manner.

That dining-room at Mother Atterson's never could have been a cheerful
place. It was long, and low-ceiled, and the paper on the walls was
a dingy red, so old that the figure on it had retired into the
background--been absorbed by it, so to speak.

The two long, dusty, windows looked upon an area, and were grilled half
way up by wrought-iron screens which, too, helped to shut out the light
of day.

The long table was covered by a red figured table cloth. The "castors"
at both ends and in the middle were the ugliest--Hiram was sure--to be
found in all the city of Crawberry. The crockery was of the coarsest
kind. The knives and forks were antediluvian. The napkins were as coarse
as huck towels.

But Mrs. Atterson's food--considering the cost of provisions and the
charge she made for her table--was very good. Only it had become a habit
for certain of the boarders, led by the jester, Crackit, to criticise
the viands.

Sometimes they succeeded in making Mrs. Atterson angry; and sometimes,
Hiram knew, she wept, alone in the dining-room, after the harumscarum,
thoughtless crowd had gone.

Old Lem Camp--nobody save Hiram thought to put "Mr." before the old
gentleman's name--sidled in and sat down beside the country boy, as
usual. He was a queer, colorless sort of person--a man who never looked
into the face of another if he could help it. He would look all around
Hiram when he spoke to him--at his shoulder, his shirtfront, his hands,
even at his feet if they were visible, but never at his face.

And at the table he kept up a continual monologue. It was difficult
sometimes for Hiram to know when he was being addressed, and when poor
Mr. Camp was merely talking to himself.

"Let's see--where has Sister put my napkin--Oh! here it is--You've been
for a walk, have you, young man?--No, that's not my napkin; I didn't
spill any gravy at dinner--Nice day out, but raw--Goodness me! can't I
have a knife and fork?--Where's my knife and fork?--Sister certainly has
forgotten my knife and fork.--Oh! Here they are--Yes, a very nice day
indeed for this time of year."

And so on. It was quite immaterial to Mr. Camp whether he got an answer
to his remarks to Hiram, or not. He went on muttering to himself, all
through the meal, sometimes commenting upon what the others said at the
table--and that quite shrewdly, Hiram noticed; but the other boarders
considered him a little cracked.

Sister smiled sheepishly at Hiram as she passed the tea. She drowned
his tea with milk and put in no less than four spoonfuls of sugar. But
although the fluid was utterly spoiled for Hiram's taste he drank it
with fortitude, knowing that the girl's generosity was the child of her
gratitude; for both sugar and milk were articles very scantily supplied
at Mother Atterson's table.

The mistress herself did not appear. Now that he was down here in the
dining-room, Hiram lingered. He hated the thought of going up to his
lonely and narrow quarters at the top of the house.

The other boarders trailed out of the room and up stairs, one after
another, Old Lem Camp being the last to go. Sister brought in a dish of
hot toast between two plates and set it at the upper end of the table.
Then Mrs. Atterson appeared.

Hiram knew at once that something had gone wrong with the boarding
house mistress. She had been crying, and when a woman of the age of Mrs.
Atterson indulges in tears, her personal appearance is never improved.

"Oh, that you, Hi?" she drawled, with a snuffle. "Did you get enough to
eat?"

"Yes, Mrs. Atterson," returned the youth, starting to get up. "I have
had plenty."

"I'm glad you did," said the lady. "And you're easy'side of most of
'em, Hiram. You're a real good boy."

"I reckon I get all I pay for, Mrs. Atterson," said her youngest
boarder.

"Well, there ain't many of 'em would say that. And they was awful
provokin' this noon. That roast of veal was just as good meat as I could
find in market; and I don't know what any sensible party would want
better than that prune pie.

"Well! I hope I won't have to keep a boarding house all my life. It's a
thankless task. An' it ties a body down so.

"Here's my uncle--my poor mother's only brother and about the only
relative I've got in the world--here's Uncle Jeptha down with the grip,
or suthin', and goodness knows if he'll ever get over it. And I can't
leave to go and see him die peaceable."

"Does he live far from here?" asked Hiram, politely, although he had no
particular reason for being interested in Uncle Jeptha.

"He lives on a farm out Scoville way. He's lived there most all his
life. He used to make a right good living off'n that farm, too; but it's
run down some now.

"The last time I was out there, two years ago, he was just keepin' along
and that's all. And now I expect he's dying, without a chick or child
of his own by him," and she burst out crying again, the tears sprinkling
the square of toast into which she continued to bite.

Of course, it was ridiculous. A middle-aged woman weeping and eating
toast and drinking strong boiled tea is not a romantic picture. But as
Hiram climbed to his room he wished with all his heart that he could
help Mrs. Atterson.

He wasn't the only person in the world who seemed to have got into
a wrong environment--lots of people didn't fit right into their
circumstances in life.

"We're square pegs in round holes--that's what we are," mused Hiram.
"That's what I am. I wish I was out of it. I wish I was back on the
farm."



CHAPTER III. A DREARY DAY

Daniel Dwight's Emporium, the general store was called, and it was in a
very populous part of the town of Crawberry. Old Daniel was a driver, he
seldom had clerks enough to handle his trade properly, and nobody could
suit him. As general helper and junior clerk, Hiram Strong had remained
with the concern longer than any other boy Daniel had hired in years.

When the early Monday morning rush was over, and there was moment's
breathing space, Hiram went to the door to re-arrange the trays of
vegetables which were his particular care. Hiram had a knack of making
a bank of the most plebeian vegetable and salads look like the
display-window of a florist.

Now the youth looked out upon a typical city street, the dwellings
on either side being four and five story tenement houses, occupied by
artisans and mechanics.

A few quarreling children paddled sticks, or sailed chip boats, in the
gutters.

"Come on, now! Get a move on you, Hi!" sounded the raucous voice of
Daniel Dwight the elder, behind him in the store.

Hiram went at his task with neither interest nor energy.

All about him the houses and the street were grimy and depressing. It
had been a gray and murky morning; but overhead a patch of sky was as
blue as June. He suddenly saw a flock of pigeons wheeling above the
tunnel of the street, and the boy's heart leaped at the sight.

He longed for freedom. He wished he could fly, up, up, up above the
housetops and the streets, like those feathered fowl.

He knew he was stagnating here in this dingy store; the deadly sameness
of his life chafed him sorely.

"I'd take another job if I could find one," he muttered, stirring up the
bunches of yellowing radish leaves and trying to make them look fresh.
"And Old Daniel is likely to give me a chance to hunt a job pretty
sudden--the way he talks. But if Dan, Junior, told him what happened
yesterday, I wonder the old gentleman hasn't been after me with a sharp
stick."

From somewhere--out of the far-distant open country where it had been
breathing all night the quivering pines, and brown swamps, and the
white and gray checkered fields that would soon be upturned by the
plowshares--a vagrant wind wandered into the city street.

The lingering, but faint perfume wafted here from God's open world to
die in this man-made town inspired in the youth thoughts and desires
that had been struggling within him for expression for days past.

"I know what I want," said Hiram Strong, aloud. "I want to get back to
the land!"

The progress of the day was not inducive to a hopeful outlook for
Hiram. When closing time came he was heartily sick of the business of
storekeeping, if he never had been before.

And when he dragged himself home to the boarding house, he found the
atmosphere there as dreary as the street itself. The boarders were
grumpy and Mrs. Atterson was in a tearful state again.

Hiram could not stay in his room. It was a narrow, cold place at the end
of the back hall at the top of the house. There was a little, painted
bureau in it, one leg of which had been replaced by a brick, and the
little glass was so blue and blurred that he never could see in it
whether his tie was straight or not.

There was a chair, a shelf for books, and a narrow folding bed. When the
bed was dropped down for his occupancy at night, he could not get the
door open. Had there ever been a fire at Atterson's at night, Hiram's
best chance for escape would have been by the window.

So this evening, to kill the miserable stretch of time until sleep
should come to him, the boy went out and walked the streets.

Two things had saved Hiram Strong from getting into bad company on these
evening rambles. One was the small amount of money he earned, and the
other was the naturally clean nature of the boy. The cheap amusements
which lured on either hand did not attract him.

But the dangers are there in every city, and they lurk for every boy in
a like position.

The main thoroughfare in this part of the town where Hiram boarded
was brightly lighted, gaudy electric signs attracting notice to cheap
picture shows, catch-penny arcades, cheap jewelry stores, and the ever
present saloons and pool rooms.

It looked bright, and warm, and lively in many of these places; but the
country-bred boy was cautious.

Now and then a raucous-voiced automobile shot along the street; the
electric cars made their usual clangor, and there was still some
ordinary traffic of the day dribbling away into the side streets, for it
was early in the evening.

Hiram was about to turn into one of these side streets on his way back
to Mrs. Atterson's. Turning the corner was a handsome span of horses
attached to a comfortable but mud-bespattered carriage. It was plainly
from the country.

The light at the corner of the street shone brightly into the carriage.
Hiram saw a well-built man in a gray greatcoat and slouch hat, holding
the reins over the backs of the spirited horses.

Beside him sat a girl. She could have been no more than twelve or
fourteen--not so old as Sister, by a year or two. But how different she
was from the starved-looking, boarding house slavey!

She was framed in furs--rich, gray and black furs that muffled her
from top to toe, only leaving her brilliant, dark little face with its
perfect features shining like a jewel in its setting.

She was talking laughingly to the big man beside her, and he was looking
down at her. Perhaps this was why he did not see what lay just ahead--or
perhaps the glare of the street light blinded him, as it must have the
horses, as the equipage turned into the darker side street.

But Hiram saw their peril. He sprang into the street with a cry of
warning. And he was lucky enough to seize the nigh horse by the bridle
and pull both the high-steppers around.

There was an excavation--an opening for a water-main--in this street.
The workmen had either neglected to leave a red lantern, or malicious
boys had stolen it.

Another moment and the horses would have been in this excavation and
even now the carriage swayed. One forward wheel went over the edge of
the hole, and for the minute it was doubtful whether Hiram had saved the
occupants of the carriage by his quick action, or had accelerated the
catastrophe.



CHAPTER IV. THE LOST CARD

Had Hiram Strong not been a muscular youth for his age, and sturdy
withal, the excited horses would have broken away from him and the
carriage would certainly have gone into the ditch.

But he had a grip on the bridle reins now that could not be broken,
although the horses plunged and struck fire from the stones of the
street with their shoes. He dragged them forward, the carriage pitched
and rolled for a moment, and then stood upright again, squarely on its
four wheels.

"All right, lad! I've got 'em!" exclaimed the gentleman in the carriage.

He had a hearty, husky sort of voice--a voice that came from deep down
in his chest and was more than a little hoarse. But there was no quiver
of excitement in it. Indeed, he who had been in peril was much less
disturbed by the incident than was Hiram himself.

Nor had the girl screamed, or otherwise voiced her terror. Now Hiram
heard her say, as he stepped back from the plunging horses:

"That is a good boy, Daddy. Speak to him again."

The man in gray laughed. He was now holding in the frightened team with
one firm hand while he fumbled in the pocket of his big coat with the
other.

"He certainly has got some muscle, that lad," announced the gentleman.
"Here, son, where can I find you when I'm in town again?"

"I work at Dwight's Emporium," replied Hiram, rather diffidently.

"All right. Thanks. Here's my card. You're the kind of a boy I like.
I'll surely look you up."

He held out the bit of pasteboard to Hiram; but as the youth stepped
nearer to reach it, the impatient horses sprang forward and the carriage
rolled swiftly by him.

The card flipped from the man's fingers. Hiram grabbed for it, but
missed the card. It fluttered into the excavation in the street and the
shadow hid it completely from the boy's gaze.

Had there been a lantern nearby, as there should have been, Hiram would
have taken it to search for the lost card. For he felt suddenly as
though Opportunity had brushed past him.

The man in the carriage evidently lived out of town. He might be a
prosperous farmer. And, being a farmer, he might be able to give Hiram
just the sort of job he was looking for.

The card, of course, would have put Hiram in touch with the man. And he
seemed like a hearty, good-natured individual.

"And the girl--his daughter--was as pretty as a picture," thought Hiram,
as he turned wearily toward the boarding house. "Well! I don't know that
I'll ever see either of them again; but if I could learn that man's name
and address I'd certainly look him up."

So much did this thought disturb him that he was up an hour earlier than
usual the next morning and hurried to work by the way of the excavation
in the street where the incident had occurred.

But he could not find the card, although he got down into the ditch to
search for it. The loose sand, perhaps, rattling down from the sides of
the excavation during the night, had buried the bit of pasteboard, and
Hiram went on to Dwight's Emporium more disheartened than ever.

The work there went worse that morning. Old Daniel Dwight drove the
young fellow from one task to another. The other clerks got a minute's
time to themselves now and then; but the proprietor of the store seemed
to have his keen eyes on Hiram continually.

There was always a slow-up in the work about ten o'clock, and Hiram had
a request to make. He asked Old Daniel for an hour off.

"An hour off--with all this work to do? What do you mean, boy?" roared
the proprietor. "What do you want an hour for?"

"I've got an errand," replied Hiram, quietly.

"Well, what is it?" snarled the old man, curiously.

"Why--it's a private matter. I can't tell you," returned the youth,
coolly.

"No good, I'll be bound--no good. I don't see why I should let you off
an hour----"

"I work many an hour overtime for you, Mr. Dwight," put in Hiram.

"Yes, yes; that's all right. That's the agreement. You knew you'd have
to when you came to work at the Emporium. Stick to your contract, boy."

"Then why don't you stick to yours?" demanded the youth, boldly.

"Eh! Eh! What do you mean by that?" cried Mr. Dwight, glaring at Hiram
through his spectacles.

"I mean that when I came to work for you seven months ago, you promised
that, if I suited after six months, you would raise my wages. And you
haven't done so," said the young fellow, firmly.

For a moment the proprietor of the Emporium was dumb. It was true. He
had promised just that. He had got the boy cheaper by so doing. But
never before had he hired a boy who stayed as long as six months, so he
had never had to raise his wages.

"Well, well!"

He stammered for a moment; then a shrewd thought came to his mind.
He actually smiled. When Mr. Dwight smiled it was worse than when he
didn't.

"I told you that if you suited me I'd raise your pay, did I?" he
snarled. "Well, you don't suit me. You never have suited me. Therefore,
you get no raise, young man."

Hiram was not astonished; he was only indignant. Another boy might