fellow's shoes: doin'
dirt to a man that a way!"

Mrs. Burson sighed audibly, and gave her husband a hopelessly
uncomprehending look. "You do beat all, Erastus," she said wearily.
"Here's your overalls. I guess you can be trusted with 'em. They're too
much patched to give to Mr. Anthony."

Burson returned her look of uncomprehension. Fortunately the marital fog
through which two pairs of eyes so often view each other is more likely
to dull the outline of faults than of virtues. Mrs. Burson watched her
husband not unfondly as he straddled into his overalls and left the
room.

"A man doesn't have to be very sharp to get the better of Erastus," she
said to herself, "but he has to be awful low down; and I s'pose there's
plenty that is."

The winter came smilingly on, tantalizing the farmer with sunny
indifference concerning drouth, and when he was quite despondent sending
great purple clouds from the southeast to wash away his fears. By
Christmas the early oranges were yellowing. There had been no frost, and
Burson's old spring-wagon and unshapely but well-fed sorrel team made
their daily round of the valley, and now and then he dropped into Mr.
Anthony's office to make small payments on his note. Pitifully small
they seemed to the mortgagee, who appeared nevertheless always glad to
receive them, and gave orders to Rufus, much to that dignitary's
disgust, that the fruit-vender should always be admitted. The handful of
coin which he so cheerfully piled on the corner of the rich man's desk
always remained there until his departure, when Mr. Anthony took an
envelope from the safe, swept the payment into it without counting, and
returned it to its compartment, making no indorsement on the note.

"I'd feel better satisfied if you'd drive out some time and take a look
at things," said Burson to his creditor during one of these visits;
"you'd ought to get out of the office now and then for your health."

"Maybe I will, Burson," replied the capitalist. "You're not away from
home all the time?"

"Oh, no, but I s'pose Sunday's your day off; it's mine. Mother and the
girls generally go to church, but I don't. I tell 'm I'll watch, and
they can pray. I can't very well go," he added, making haste to
counteract the possible shock from his irreverence; "there ain't but one
seat in the fruit-wagon, and when the women folks get their togs on,
three's about all that can ride. Come out any Sunday, and stay for
dinner. We mostly have