The man tested the weight of the timepiece by tossing it lightly in his palm, and then he pried the case open with the stiff nail of his thumb, and, with a critical eye, examined the works. “Full-jewelled and good make,” he said; and then he gave it back. “I'm a trader,” he went on. “I make money buying and selling any old thing from a pickaxe to a piano, from a pet cat to a blooded horse; but I hain't in _your_ market.” “You say you 'hain't'?” Dick Warren mocked him, in fresh anger. “No, I hain't,” the obtuse farmer repeated. “I did a fool thing like that when I was a boy. I bought a bay mare from a man who rid up to my daddy's barn without a saddle, blanket, or bridle--had just a heavy hemp rope round her neck. I bit, and chuckled all that day as I rid about, showing the gals how bright I'd been. Then the sheriff of the county hove in sight, and--well, my daddy had to pay out a hundred-dollar lawyer's fee to prove that I wasn't of age, never had had any sense, and couldn't have knowed the mare was stolen property. So, you see, when a fellow comes hiking along here without a nickel to buy a loaf of bread, and lookin' like he's been wading through swamps and sleeping in haystacks, and has a gold ticker that is good enough fer the vest-pocket of Jay Gould, why, I feel like pullin' down the left-hand corner of my right eye an' axin' him ef he hain't got a striped suit under his outside one, hot as the weather is.” “You blamed old--” Dick Warren began, threateningly, as he bristled up to the farmer, his fists drawn; but Walton put out his hand and stopped him. “He's right, Dick,” he said, and there was a pained look about his sensitive mouth. “The circumstances are dead against us.” “Yes, I reckon they are, gents,” grinned the man at the gate. “Anyways, I don't think you will find a buyer fer that timepiece. Good-day. There ain't nothing in all this palaver fer _me_,” and his eye twinkled as he finished. “My wife's got dinner waitin' for me: a good fat hen, baked to a turn, with rich corn-meal stuffin', an' hot biscuits, coffee, string-beans, and fried ham--the country-cured sort that you've read about!” CHAPTER XV |I SWEAR, I'd enjoy firing _his_ barn!” Dick fumed, as the two friends walked on through the beating sun. “I don't think I can stand much more of it, Fred. I'm all gone inside. The lining of my stomach has folded over.” They were passing the corner of a field where, in the distance, they could see two men at work digging ditches to drain the boggy land, and they paused again to rest under the shade of a tree. “I guess they will stop soon and go home to a square meal,” Dick said, bitterly; and then his roving glance fixed itself on a spot in the corner of the snake-fence near by. “By George!” he exclaimed, exultantly, “we are in luck! Gee, what a pick-up!” “What is it, now?” Walton asked. But the boy was bounding away toward the fence. “You wait and see--gee, what luck!”