Ranching for Sylvia. Harold Bindloss
moodiness was the effect of the weather. This was partly the case, but he was also suffering from homesickness and a shrinking from what was new and strange.
The wooden house had a dreary, dilapidated look; the weathered, neglected appearance of barns and stables was depressing. It was through a neighboring gap in the fence that Marston's team had brought their lifeless master home; and Edgar had seen enough to realize that the man must have grown slack and nerveless before he had succumbed. The farm had broken down Marston's strength and courage, and now another man, less gifted in many ways, had taken it in charge. Edgar wondered how he would succeed; but in spite of a few misgivings he had confidence in George.
After a while the latter, who had been examining Marston's farming books, came out, looking grave; he had worn a serious air since their arrival.
"There'll have to be a change," he said. "Dick's accounts have given me something to think about. I believe I'm beginning to understand now how his money went."
"I suppose you haven't got the new program cut and dried yet?" Edgar suggested.
George was seldom precipitate.
"No," he answered. "I've a few ideas in my mind."
"Won't you have some trouble about finances, if the alterations are extensive?"
"I'll have to draw on my private account, unless Herbert will assist."
"Herbert won't do anything of the kind," said Edgar decidedly.
George, making no answer, called Grierson from the stable.
"You'll drive in to the settlement after breakfast to-morrow, Tom," he said. "Tell the man I'll keep the team, if he'll knock off twenty dollars, and he can have his check when he likes. Then bring out the flour and groceries."
"I suppose I won't be going in again for a while; we'll be too busy?"
"It's very likely," said Edgar, knowing his comrade's temperament.
"Then I wonder if I could draw a pound or two?" asked Grierson diffidently.
"Why?" George questioned him. "The Immigration people would see that you had some money before they let you in."
"I've four pounds now; I want to send something home at once."
"Ah!" said George. "I see. How much did you leave your wife?"
"About three pounds, sir; I had to bring enough to pass me at Quebec."
"Then if you give me what you have, I'll let you have a check for twice as much on an English bank. Better get your letter written."
Grierson's look was very expressive as he turned away with a word of thanks; and Edgar smiled at George.
"You have bought that fellow—for an advance of four pounds," he said.
George showed a little embarrassment.
"I was thinking of the woman," he explained.
Then he pointed to the prairie.
"There's a rig coming. It looks like visitors."
Soon afterward, Grant, whom they had met on the train, drew up his team and helped his daughter down.
"We were passing and thought we'd look in," he said. "Found out yesterday that you were located here."
George called Grierson to take the team, and leading the new arrivals to the house, which was still in disorder, he found them seats in the kitchen. It was rather roughly and inadequately furnished, and Edgar had decided that Sylvia had spent little of her time there. After they had talked for a while, a man, dressed in blue duck trousers, a saffron-colored shirt, and an old slouch hat, which he did not remove, walked in, carrying a riding quirt. Grant returned his greeting curtly, and then the man addressed George.
"I heard you were running this place," he said.
"That's correct."
"Then I put in the wheat on your summer fallow; Mrs. Marston told me to. Thought I'd come along and let you have the bill."
His manner was assertively offhand, and George did not ask him to sit down.
"It's a very second-rate piece of work," George said. "You might have used the land-packer more than you did."
"It's good enough. Anyway, I'll trouble you for the money."
Edgar was sensible of indignation mixed with amusement. This overbearing fellow did not know George Lansing.
"I think you had better take off your hat before we go any farther—it's customary. Then you may tell me what I owe you."
The man looked astonished, but he complied with the suggestion, and afterward stated his charge, which was unusually high. Edgar noticed that Grant was watching George with quiet interest.
"I suppose you have a note from Mrs. Marston fixing the price?"
The other explained that the matter had been arranged verbally.
"Was anybody else present when you came to terms?" George asked.
"You can quit feeling, and pay up!" exclaimed the stranger. "I've told you how much it is."
"The trouble is that you're asking nearly double the usual charge per acre."
Grant smiled approvingly, but the man advanced with a truculent air to the table at which George was sitting.
"I've done the work; that's good enough for me."
"You have done it badly, but I'll give you a check now, based on the regular charge, which should come to"—George made a quick calculation on a strip of paper and handed it to the man. "This is merely because you seem in a hurry. If you're not satisfied, you can wait until I get an answer from Mrs. Marston; or I'll ask some of my neighbors to arbitrate."
The man hesitated, with anger in his face.
"I guess I'll take the check," he said sullenly.
Crossing the floor, George took a pen and some paper from a shelf.
"Sit here," he said, when he came back, "and write me a receipt."
The other did as he was bidden, and George pointed toward the door.
"That's settled; I won't keep you."
The man looked hard at him, and then went quietly out; and Grant leaned back in his seat with a soft laugh.
"You fixed him," he remarked. "He has the name of being a tough."
"I suppose an Englishman newly out is considered lawful prey."
"A few of them deserve it," Grant returned dryly. "But let that go.
What do you think of the place?"
George felt that he could trust the farmer. He had spent a depressing day, during which all he saw had discouraged him. Marston had farmed in a singularly wasteful manner; fences and outbuildings were in very bad repair; half the implements were useless; and it would be a long and costly task to put things straight.
"I feel that I'll have my hands full. In fact, I'm a little worried about it; there are so many changes that must be made."
"Sure. Where are you going to begin?"
"By getting as much summer fallowing as possible done on the second quarter-section. The first has been growing wheat for some time; I'll sew part of that with timothy. There's one bit of stiff land I might put in flax. I've thought of trying corn for the silo."
"Timothy and a silo?" commented Grant.
"You're going in for stock, then? It means laying out money, and a slow return."
"I'm afraid so. Still, you can't grow cereals year after year on this light soil. It's a wasteful practise that will have to be abandoned, as people here seem to be discovering. Grain won't pay at sixteen bushels to the acre."