There was a man named Carl Bonton who owned a threshing machine. I heard
he was in need of hands for the season.
I nailed my few books up in a drygoods box and left them in care of
Professor Langworth's housekeeper, the former having gone away to
Colorado for the summer. As for clothes, tramp-life had taught me the
superfluity of more than a change of shirts and b.v.d's.
Bonton looked me over.
"You don't look strong enough ... the work is mighty hard."
"I'm pretty wiry. Try me out, that is all I ask. If I buckle in, I won't
mind walking back to town."
Bonton's buckboard carried us the matter of five miles to where his
machine, separator and cook-shack stood ... lurking behind a grove of
Osage orange trees.
Bonton had brought two other men besides me, as accessories to his gang.
We found the gang just tumbling forth from the cook waggon, a small,
oblong sort of house on wheels ... a long table in it, with benches ...
much like the lunch waggons seen standing about the streets in cities.
"Hello, boys, is it dry enough to begin loadin' yet?"
"Naw; the dew's still as heavy as rain on the bundles."
"We'd best wait a little longer, then."
* * * * *
Though it seemed that half the day had wheeled by already, by seven
o'clock we rode a-field, and the less experienced of us were hard at it,
tossing up bundles to the loaders, who placed them swiftly here and
there till the waggons were packed tight and piled high.
Pages:
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395