on his knees and there was three men sticking little knives into him. Oh, it was a sorry sight!"
Perkin was convulsed with laughter, queer, giggling laughter that disgusted Delight.
"A bull," he stammered, "a bull! You'd ought to see Joel. If he was a bull no butcher livin' would give fifty cents for his hide. He's over forty and hump-backed and all broken down with work."
"Working for his father, I suppose, when he was too young, before his bones were set. Where does he work now?"
"He don't get much to do. Folks are afraid to give him work because they're scared of Pa. Now and then we give him a day, so's he won't starve. And he can have all his wood and turnips and potatoes off the place."
"If I was his wife I'd starve before I'd let him take a day's work from that old man."
"Not if you was nursin' a baby, would you?"
"Oh, my goodness," cried Delight, "this is the most unnatural place I've ever struck! Let's go get the baskets so I can begin my work. They're inside, aren't they?"
They went into the barn where sweet-smelling hay, spilled from the lofts, clung to the rafters, strewed the floor. In one corner crates and baskets were piled in disorder, many of them broken or scattered among straw and discarded harness.
Perkin began languidly to delve among them and extricated some of the least battered for Delight's use.
"The Indians have left these in a nice mess," he explained.
Delight watched his movements with interest.
"Who does the work on this comical farm, anyway?" she asked.
"Well, an old feller named Peake and his grandson
