There was a laugh in which all but the Englishmen joined, and they, with a remark about a “lot of bally rough-necks” withdrew themselves from the group.
“I tell you what, Mr. Whiskers,” said a young fellow wearing a Stetson and cigarette, “I think I’m just the man you need. Was born on a farm and know the whole deck. Can drive anything from a dog-team to a traction engine. Nothin’ in the State had anythin’ on me when it came to drivin’.”
The farmer focused his eyes on the cigarette with supreme contempt. “If Ah had ye ah’d use ye fer driving all right,” he said, speaking with great deliberateness. “Yep. Ah’d use ye fer drivin’ posts—if I could fit a handle!”
There was another laugh, but the crowd was thinning down.
“Well, Ah suppose you was brung up on a farm, too?” continued the farmer, addressing a husky looking chap in a cottanade suit and flannel shirt. “Can ye shock?”
“Well I guess I can,” said the man addressed. “I was the long-distance shocker of our settlement.”
“Use tuh take in shockin’, Ah suppose,” answered the farmer. “Waal, how many sheaves did they put in the shock, your way about?”
The candidate for the position hesitated a moment. “Well,” he ventured at length, “I don’t know that I ever counted, but I should say about fifty.”
“That’ll do fer you,” said the farmer. “You’re not a shocker. You’re a stacker.” Then turning to Burton, “Ah suppose you was raised on a farm too?”
“How’s binders built—right or left-hand cut?”
“Most of them are left-hand, except McCormicks.”
“By hang,” said the farmer, addressing an invisible audience, “here’s a fellow that knows somethin’, anyhow. Say! Now, supposin’ you was drivin’ a binder, an’ she was kickin’ out loose sheaves right along, with the knot all on one end o’ the string, what’ud yuh do fer it?”
“I’d sharpen the knotter-knife first,” said Burton, “and if that didn’t fix it I’d——”
“Thet’ll do,” interrupted the farmer. “This is my wagon here. Throw in yer bundle an’ stretch yerself around town fer an hour, an’ then we’ll hit the trail. But Ah forgot to tell you, it’s fifty miles tuh my farm, an’ the comp’ny out there ain’t much writ up in the sassiety papers.”
“The farther the better,” said Burton. There was a touch of bitterness in his voice, and the old man looked at him keenly.