to-day, an’ they won’t begin thrashin’ our crop till nex’ Monday.”
He followed her to the barn, willing to while away the time examining the big thresher. It filled nearly all the clear space on the barn floor, and towered half as high as the haymow. With its bright red body and diverse mechanical parts, the machine certainly presented an imposing appearance. The boy examined it with much curiosity.
“There are two distinct engines,” he said musingly; “one a motor, I suppose, and one to do the work. The big one runs by steam, but this smaller one seems a gasolene engine.”
“Perhaps it is,’ said the woman; “I never had it explained to me like you did your own machine.”
“Tf it is,’ he suddenly exclaimed, “there must be some gasolene among Mr. Herrin’s traps to run it with! If I can only find it, I ‘ll borrow enough to get me to Fennport.”
Eagerly, now, he began the search, the woman looking on with interest. In a short time, he drew out from the interior of the thresher a ten-gallon can, which proved to be filled with the fluid he sought.
“Hooray!” he cried joyfully. “We ‘ll have our ride, after all, Aunt ’Phroney.”
“It—it ain’t stealin’, is it?” she asked doubtfully. “This all b’longs to Silas Herrin, you know.”
“It ’s a law of the road, ma’am, that any one needing gasolene has the right to help himself—if he pays for what he takes. I ‘ll pay Silas Herrin a good price, and he ‘ll have plenty left to run his engine with.”
He got a bucket, measured out about three gallons, and placed a silver dollar on top of the can for payment. Then, when he had “fed” his automobile, an operation watched carefully by the old woman, the boy turned and said:
“Aunt ’Phroney, I ’ve a proposition to make. Get on your things, and I ‘ll take you to the fair at Fennport and give you a good time.”
“Land sakes, boy!” she cried, holding up both hands; “I could n’t think of it.”
“Why not?”
“There ’s the work to do.”
“Cut it out for to-day. Martin Luther ’s having a holiday, and I ’m sure you ’re entitled to one, too.”
“He—he might be mad.”
“I don’t see why. It won't cost him a cent, you know, and perhaps we won't see him at all. We ’ll have a good dinner somewhere, see all the sights, have a fine auto ride, and I ‘ll fetch you home in plenty of time to get supper for your husband.”
The temptation was too strong to be resisted. Aunt ’Phroney’s face broke into a beaming smile, and she hurried into the house to get on her “bes’ bib an’ tucker.”
Her reappearance caused the boy’s eyes to twinkle. She wore a plain, black gown, baggy and ill made, an old-fashioned “Peasley” shaw‘ wrapped around her shoulders, and a wonderful hat that no milliner would have recognized as modern head-gear. But the boy did not mind. He helped her to the seat beside him, saw that she was comfortable, and started the engines slowly, so as not to alarm her.
The lane from the farm-house to the Fennport turnpike was in much better condition than the other end, which Aunt ’Phroney said was seldom used by any one. They traversed it with merely a few bumps, and on reaching the turnpike glided along so smoothly, that the old woman was in an ecstasy of delight.
“I almos’ hope Mart’n Luther will see us,” she remarked. “Would n’t he be s’prised, though, to see me in this stylish no-hoss keeridge?”
“I think he would,” said the boy.
“An’ jealous, too. Mart’n Luther says I take life easier ner he does, ‘though my work ’s jus’ as hard fer me as his is fer him. Only diff’rence is, I don’t complain.”
“Is—is your husband a poor man?” the boy hazarded.
“Goodness, no! Mart’n Luther ’s pretty well off, I’m told. Not by him, mind you. He only tells me what he can’t afford. But our minister once said he would n't be s prised if Mart’n Luther had a thousan’ dollars laid up! It ’s a pretty good farm, an’ he works it himself. An’ he’s so keerful o’ spendin’.”
“Does n’t he give you money for—for clothes and—and things?”
“Oh, yes; he ’s good *bout that. We made an agreement, once, an’ he ’s stuck to it like a man. Ev’ry New-Year’s, he gives me five dollars for dresses an’ hats, an’ ev'ry Fourth o’ July I git fifty cents an’ no questions asked.”
The boy’s eyes grew big at this.
“Does n't he spend anything on himself, either?” he inquired.
“A little, of course. He gits his clo’s second-hand from the drug-store keeper, who ’s about the same size as Mart’n Luther, but some fatter, an’ he puts five cents in the contribution box ev’ry Sunday, an’—an’—well, there ’s the toll-gate he has to pay for ev'ry time he goes to town. That toll-gate makes him orful mad. We ’re comin’ to it pretty soon. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all,” he cried, laughing merrily.
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