“All right,” said Hiram, knowing full well that there was nothing to be made by quarreling with Sam Dickerson. “His returning the turkeys, however, will not keep me from speaking to the constable the very next time Pete plays any of his tricks around our place. “It may be 'fun' for him; but it won't look so funny from the inside of the town jail.” He walked off after this threat. And he was sorry he had said it. For he had no real intention of having Pete arrested, and an empty threat is of no use to anybody. The turkeys came back; Sister did not even know that they had been stolen, for when she went down to feed them about the middle of the forenoon, all ten came running to her call. But Pete Dickerson ceased from troubling for a time, much to Hiram's satisfaction. Meanwhile the crops were coming on finely. Hiram's tomatoes were bringing good prices in Scoville, and as he had such a quantity and was so much earlier than the other farmers around about, he did, as he told Henry he would do, “skim the cream off the market.” He bought some crates and baskets in town, too, and shipped some of the tomatoes to a produce man he knew in Crawberry--a man whom he could trust to treat him fairly. During the season that man's checks to Mrs. Atterson amounted to fifty-four dollars. Three times a week the spring wagon went to town with vegetables for the school, the hotels, and their retail customers. The whole family worked long hours, and worked hard; but nobody complained. No rain fell of any consequence until the latter part of July; and then there was no danger of the river overflowing and drowning out the corn. And that corn! By the last of July it was waist high, growing rank and strong, and of that black-green color which delights the farmer's eye. Mr. Bronson walked down to the river especially to see it. Like Hiram's upland corn, there was scarcely a hill missing, save where the muskrats had dug in from the river bank and disturbed the corn hills. “That's the finest-looking corn in this county, bar none, Hiram,” declared Bronson. “I have seldom seen better looking in the rich bottom-lands of the West. And you certainly do keep it clean, boy.” “No use in putting in a crop if you don't 'tend it,” said the young farmer, sententiously. “And what's this along here?” asked the gentleman, pointing to a row or two of small stuff along the inner edge of the field. “I'm trying onions and celery down here. I want to put a commercial crop into this field next year--if we are let stay here--that will pay Mrs. Atterson and me a real profit,” and Hiram laughed. “What do you call a real profit?” inquired Mr. Bronson, seriously. “Four hundred dollars an acre, net,” said the young farmer, promptly. “Why, Hiram, you can't do that!” cried the gentleman. “It's being done--in other localities and on soil not so rich as this--and I believe I can do it.” “With onions or celery?” “Yes, sir.” “Which--or both?” asked the Westerner, interested.