I went up to my chamber when we got back, and sat down beside my little glass lamp and did some figuring. I had $24,000 of my savings left, and out of that I subtracted another $2,000 for the carpenters and plumbers. That left me with an income from my investments of about $1,000 a year. Added to my alleged salary as a manuscript reader, along with what I hoped I could pick up writing, I recklessly calculated my annual income as a possible $3,000. Out of this I subtracted $600 for Mike's wages, $360 for a housekeeper, $400 for additional labour, $75 for taxes, and $500 for additions to my "plant," as I began to call my farm. That made a total of $1,935, and left me a margin of about $1,000 for food, wines, liquors, and cigars, magazines, rare etchings, first editions, golf club dues, golf balls, caddy hire, an automobile, some antique mahogany, a few Persian rugs, an Italian marble sundial, and several other trifles I desired. I scanned my pad thoughtfully, and finally decided not to join the golf club till the following year. Then it occurred to me that I ought, of course, to sell my farm produce for a handsome profit. Bert had gone to bed, so I couldn't ask him how much I would be likely to realize. But with all due conservatism I decided that I could safely rejoin the golf club. So I did, then and there. Whereupon I felt better, and, picking out the manuscript of a novel from my bag, I went bravely at the task of earning my living. Chapter III NEW JOY IN AN OLD ORCHARD The following morning was a balmy and exquisite first of May, but realism again compels me to confess that, having been an English instructor for seven years, and having read manuscripts the night before till 2 A.M., I did not leap lightly from my couch at the breakfast call, nor did I sing ecstatically, as I looked from my window: _"Im wunderschönen Monat Mai."_ What I actually did was to curse to myself at having to clean my teeth in bitterly cold water, something I have always loathed. Nor was I greatly cheered by Mrs. Temple's coffee. The New England farmer's wife can cook everything but coffee. But there seems to be something in that simple art which completely baffles her. Perhaps the coffee has something to do with it! Her cheery face, however, was not long to be resisted, and Bert hustled me off immediately after the meal to meet Hard Cider Howard, whom, by some rural wireless, he had already summoned. As we walked down the road, I glanced toward my lone pine, and saw my horse and Mike's hitched to the plough, with Joe driving and Mike holding the handles. Across the green pasture, between the road and the hayfield, already four rich brown furrows were shining up to the sun. "Well, Mike didn't wait long!" I exclaimed. "I wonder why he started in there?" "I told him to," said Bert. "That's goin' ter be yer pertater crop this year." "Is it?" said I. "Why?" I felt a little peeved. After all, this was _my_ farm.