shows how wise he wasn't. I hadn't showed I could plow."

When Saxon had served the beans, and Billy the coffee, she stood still
a moment and surveyed the spread meal on the blankets--the canister of
sugar, the condensed milk tin, the sliced corned beef, the lettuce salad
and sliced tomatoes, the slices of fresh French bread, and the steaming
plates of beans and mugs of coffee.

"What a difference from last night!" Saxon exclaimed, clapping her
hands. "It's like an adventure out of a book. Oh, that boy I went
fishing with! Think of that beautiful table and that beautiful house
last night, and then look at this. Why, we could have lived a thousand
years on end in Oakland and never met a woman like Mrs. Mortimer nor
dreamed a house like hers existed. And, Billy, just to think, we've only
just started."

Billy worked for three days, and while insisting that he was doing very
well, he freely admitted that there was more in plowing than he had
thought. Saxon experienced quiet satisfaction when she learned he was
enjoying it.

"I never thought I'd like plowin'--much," he observed. "But it's fine.
It's good for the leg-muscles, too. They don't get exercise enough in
teamin'. If ever I trained for another fight, you bet I'd take a whack
at plowin'. An', you know, the ground has a regular good smell to it,
a-turnin' over an' turnin' over. Gosh, it's good enough to eat, that
smell. An' it just goes on, turnin' up an' over, fresh an' thick an'
good, all day long. An' the horses are Joe-dandies. They know their
business as well as a man. That's one thing, Benson ain't got a scrub
horse on the place."

The last day Billy worked, the sky clouded over, the air grew damp, a
strong wind began to blow from the southeast, and all the signs were
present of the first winter rain. Billy came back in the evening with a
small roll of old canvas he had borrowed, which he proceeded to arrange
over their bed on a framework so as to shed rain. Several times he
complained about the little finger of his left hand. It had been
bothering him all day he told Saxon, for several days slightly, in fact,
and it was as tender as a boil--most likely a splinter, but he had been
unable to locate it.

He went ahead with storm preparations, elevating the bed on old boards
which he lugged from a disused barn falling to decay on the opposite
bank of the creek. Upon the boards he heaped dry leaves for a mattress.
He concluded by reinforcing the canvas with