Bill sat motionless on the edge of the bed in their little room in San Jose that night, a musing expression in his eyes.
"Well," he remarked at last, with a long-drawn breath, "all I've got to say is there's some pretty nice people in this world after all. Take Mrs. Mortimer. Now she's the real goods--regular old American."
"A fine, educated lady," Saxon agreed, "and not a bit ashamed to work at farming herself. And she made it go, too."
"On twenty acres--no, ten; and paid for 'em, an' all improvements, an' supported herself, four hired men, a Swede woman an' daughter, an' her own nephew. It gets me. Ten acres!
Why, my father never talked less'n one hundred an' sixty acres.
Even your brother Tom still talks in quarter sections.--An' she was only a woman, too. We was lucky in meetin' her."
"Wasn't it an adventure!" Saxon cried. "That's what comes of traveling. You never know what's going to happen next. It jumped right out at us, just when we were tired and wondering how much farther to San Jose. We weren't expecting it at all. And she didn't treat us as if we were tramping. And that house--so clean and beautiful. You could eat off the floor. I never dreamed of anything so sweet and lovely as the inside of that house."
"It smelt good," Billy supplied.
"That's the very thing. It's what the women's pages call atmosphere. I didn't know what they meant before. That house has beautiful, sweet atmosphere--"
"Like all your nice underthings," said Billy.
"And that's the next step after keeping your body sweet and clean and beautiful. It's to have your house sweet and clean and beautiful."
"But it can't be a rented one, Saxon. You've got to own it.
Landlords don't build houses like that. Just the same, one thing stuck out plain: that house was not expensive. It wasn't the cost. It was the way. The wood was ordinary wood you can buy in any lumber yard. Why, our house on Pine street was made out of the same kind of wood. But the way it was made was different. I can't explain, but you can see what I'm drivin' at."
Saxon, revisioning the little bungalow they had just left, repeated absently: "That's it--the way."
The next morning they were early afoot, seeking through the suburbs of San Jose the road to San Juan and Monterey. Saxon's limp had increased. Beginning with a burst blister, her heel was skinning rapidly. Billy remembered his father's talks about care of the feet, and stopped at a butcher shop to buy five cents' worth of mutton tallow.
"That's the stuff," he told Saxon. "Clean foot-gear and the feet well greased. We'll put some on as soon as we're clear of town.
An' we might as well go easy for a couple of days. Now, if I could get a little work so as you could rest up several days it'd be just the thing. I '11 keep my eye peeled."
Almost on the outskirts of town he left Saxon on the county road and went up a long driveway to what appeared a large farm. He came back beaming.
"It's all hunkydory," he called as he approached. "We'll just go down to that clump of trees by the creek an' pitch camp. I start work in the mornin', two dollars a day an' board myself. It'd been a dollar an' a half if he furnished the board. I told 'm I liked the other way best, an' that I had my camp with me. The weather's fine, an' we can make out a few days till your foot's in shape. Come on. We'll pitch a regular, decent camp."
"How did you get the job," Saxon asked, as they cast about, determining their camp-site.
"Wait till we get fixed an' I'll tell you all about it. It was a dream, a cinch."
Not until the bed was spread, the fire built, and a pot of beans boiling did Billy throw down the last armful of wood and begin.
"In the first place, Benson's no old-fashioned geezer. You wouldn't think he was a farmer to look at 'm. He's up to date, sharp as tacks, talks an' acts like a business man. I could see that, just by lookin' at his place, before I seen HIM. He took about fifteen seconds to size me up.
"'Can you plow?' says he.
"'Sure thing,' I told 'm.
"'Know horses?'
"'I was hatched in a box-stall,' says I.
"An' just then--you remember that four-horse load of machinery that come in after me?--just then it drove up.
"'How about four horses?' he asks, casual-like.
"'Right to home. I can drive 'm to a plow, a sewin' machine, or a merry-go-round.'
"'Jump up an' take them lines, then,' he says, quick an' sharp, not wastin' seconds. 'See that shed. Go 'round the barn to the right an' back in for unloadin'.'
"An' right here I wanta tell you it was some nifty drivin' he was askin'. I could see by the tracks the wagons'd all ben goin' around the barn to the left. What he was askin' was too close work for comfort--a double turn, like an S, between a corner of a paddock an' around the corner of the barn to the last swing. An', to eat into the little room there was, there was piles of manure just thrown outa the barn an' not hauled away yet. But I wasn't lettin' on nothin'. The driver gave me the lines, an' I could see he was grinnin', sure I'd make a mess of it. I bet he couldn't a-done it himself. I never let on, an away we went, me not even knowin' the horses--but, say, if you'd seen me throw them leaders clean to the top of the manure till the nigh horse was scrapin' the side of the barn to make it, an' the off hind hub was cuttin' the corner post of the paddock to miss by six inches. It was the only way. An' them horses was sure beauts. The leaders slacked back an' darn near sat down on their singletrees when I threw the back into the wheelers an' slammed on the brake an' stopped on the very precise spot.
"'You'll do,' Benson says. 'That was good work.'
"'Aw, shucks,' I says, indifferent as hell. 'Gimme something real hard.'
"He smiles an' understands.
"'You done that well,' he says. 'An' I'm particular about who handles my horses. The road ain't no place for you. You must be a good man gone wrong. Just the same you can plow with my horses, startin' in to-morrow mornin'.'
"Which shows how wise he wasn't. I hadn't showed I could plow."
