"No positions?" enquired Cameron.

"Nary one! Say, young man, where do you come from?"

"Scotland," replied Cameron.

"Scotland! yeh don't say, now. Jest out, eh?"

"Yes, about a month or so."

"Well, well! Yeh don't say so!"

"Yes," replied Cameron, "and I am surprised to hear that there is no work."

"Oh! hold on there now!" interposed Haley gravely. "If it's work you want there are stacks of it lying round, but there ain't no positions.

Positions!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Haley, who seemed to be fascinated by the word, "there ain't none on my farm except one and I hold that myself; but there's lots o' work, and--why! I want a man right now. What say? Come along, stay's long's yeh like. I like yeh fine."

"All right," said Cameron. "Wait till I get my bag, but I ought to tell you I have had no experience."

"No experience, eh!" Haley pondered. "Well, we'll give it to you, and anyway you saved me some experience to-day and you come home with me."

When he returned he found Haley sitting on the bottom of the wagon rapidly sinking into slumber. The effects of the bucket were pa.s.sing off.

"What about the groceries, Tim?" enquired Cameron.

"We've got to git 'em," said Tim, "or we'll catch it sure."

Leaving Cameron to wonder what it might be that they were sure to catch, Tim extracted from his father's pocket the paper on which were listed the groceries to be purchased, and the roll of bills, and handed both to Cameron.

"You best git 'em," he said, and, mounting to the high spring seat, turned the team out of the yard. The groceries secured with Cameron's help, they set off for home as the long June evening was darkening into night.

"My! it's awful late," said Tim in a voice full of foreboding. "And Perkins ain't no good at ch.o.r.es."

"How far is it to your home?" enquired Cameron.

"Nine miles out this road and three off to the east."

"And who's Perkins?"

"Perkins! Joe Perkins! He's our hired man. He's a terror to work at plowin', cradlin', and bindin', but he ain't no good at ch.o.r.es. I bet yeh he'll leave Mandy to do the milkin', ten cows, and some's awful bad."

"And who's Mandy?" enquired Cameron.

"Mandy! She's my sister. She's an awful quick milker. She can beat Dad, or Perkins, or any of 'em, but ten cows is a lot, and then there's the pigs and the calves to feed, and the wood, too. I bet Perkins won't cut a stick. He's good enough in the field," continued Tim, with an obvious desire to do Perkins full justice, "but he ain't no good around the house. He says he ain't hired to do women's ch.o.r.es, and Ma she won't ask 'im. She says if he don't do what he sees to be done she'd see 'im far enough before she'd ask 'im." And so Timothy went on with a monologue replete with information, his high thin voice rising clear above the roar and rattle of the lumber wagon as it rumbled and jolted over the rutty gravel road. Those who knew the boy would have been amazed at his loquacity, but something in Cameron had won his confidence and opened his heart. Hence his monologue, in which the qualities, good and bad, of the members of the family, of their own hired man and of other hired men were fully discussed. The standard of excellence for work in the neighbourhood, however, appeared to be Perkins, whose abilities Tim appeared greatly to admire, but for whose person he appeared to have little regard.

"He's mighty good at turnip hoeing, too," he said. "I could pretty near keep up to him last year and I believe I could do it this year. Some day soon I'm going to git after 'im. My! I'd like to trim 'im to a fine point."

The live stock on the farm in general, and the young colts in particular, among which a certain two-year-old was showing signs of marvellous speed, these and cognate subjects relating to the farm, its dwellers and its activities, Tim pa.s.sed in review, with his own shrewd comments thereon.

"And what do you play, Tim?" asked Cameron, seeking a point of contact with the boy.

"Nothin'," said Tim shortly. "No time."

"Don't you go to school?"

"Yes, in fall and winter. Then we play ball and shinny some, but there ain't much time."

"But you can't work all the time, Tim? What work can you do?"

"Oh!" replied Tim carelessly, "I run a team."

"Run a team? What do you mean?"

Tim glanced up at him and, perceiving that he was quite serious, proceeded to explain that during the spring's work he had taken his place in the plowing and harrowing with the "other" men, that he expected to drive the mower and reaper in haying and harvest, that, in short, in almost all kinds of farm work he was ready to take the place of a grown man; and all this without any sign of boasting.

Cameron thought over his own life, in which sport had filled up so large a place and work so little, and in which he had developed so little power of initiative and such meagre self-dependence, and he envied the solemn-faced boy at his side, handling his team and wagon with the skill of a grown man.

"I say, Tim!" he exclaimed in admiration, "you're great. I wish I could do half as much."

"Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed Tim in modest self-disdain, "that ain't nothin', but I wish I could git off a bit."

"Get off? What do you mean?"

The boy was silent for some moments, then asked shyly:

"Say! Is there big cities in Scotland, an' crowds of people, an' trains, an' engines, an' factories, an' things? My! I wish I could git away!"

Then Cameron understood dimly something of the wander-l.u.s.t in the boy's soul, of the hunger for adventure, for the colour and movement of life in the great world "away" from the farm, that thrilled in the boy's voice. So for the next half hour he told Tim tales of his own life, the chief glory of which had been his achievements in the realm of sport, and, before he was aware, he was describing to the boy the great International with Wales, till, remembering the disastrous finish, he brought his narrative to an abrupt close.

"And did yeh lick 'em?" demanded Tim in a voice of intense excitement.

"No," said Cameron shortly.

"Oh, hedges! I wisht ye had!" exclaimed Tim in deep disappointment.

"It was my fault," replied Cameron bitterly, for the eager wish in the boy's heart had stirred a similar yearning in his own and had opened an old sore.

"I was a fool," he said, more to himself than to Tim. "I let myself get out of condition and so I lost them the match."

"Aw, git out!" said Tim, with unbelieving scorn. "I bet yeh didn't! My!

I wisht I could see them games."

"Oh, pshaw! Tim, they are not half so worth while as plowing, harrowing, and running your team. Why, here you are, a boy of--how old?"

"Thirteen," said Tim.

"A boy of thirteen able to do a man's work, and here am I, a man of twenty-one, only able to do a boy's work, and not even that. But I'm going to learn, Tim," added Cameron. "You hear me, I am going to learn to do a man's work. If I can," he added doubtfully.

"Oh, shucks!" replied Tim, "you bet yeh can, and I'll show yeh," with which mutual determination they turned in at the gate of the Haley farm, which was to be the scene of Cameron's first attempt to do a man's work and to fill a man's place in the world.