"I'm doing what I can to achieve it, sir," he said. "In fact, I'm
staking somewhat heavily. That team with the gang plows and
cultivators cost me more dollars than I care to remember."
"No doubt," said Barrington dryly. "Still, we have always considered
oxen good enough for breaking prairie at Silverdale."
Winston nodded. "I used to do so, sir, when I could get nothing
better, but after driving oxen for eight years one finds out their
disadvantages."
Barrington's face grew a trifle stern. "There are times when you tax
our patience, Lance," he said. "Still, there is nothing to be gained
by questioning your assertion. What I fail to see, is where your
reward for all this will come from, because I am still convinced that
the soil will, so to speak, give you back eighty cents for every dollar
you put into it. I would, however, like to look at those implements.
I have never seen better ones."
He dismounted and helped his companion down, for Winston made no
answer. The farmer was never sure what actuated him, but, save in an
occasional fit of irony, he had not attempted by any reference to make
his past fall into line with Courthorne's since he had first been
accepted as the latter at Silverdale. He had taken the dead man's
inheritance for a while, but he would stoop no further, and to speak
the truth, which he saw was not credited, brought him a grim amusement
and also flung a sop to his pride. Presently, however, Miss Barrington
turned to him, and there was a kindly gleam in her eyes as she glanced
at the splendid horses and widening strip of plowing.
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