The artistic hoer, however, is not content with this. His artistic soul demands not only that single plants should stand in unbroken row from end to end along the drill top, but that the drill itself should be pared down on each side to the likeness of a house roof with a perfectly even ridge.
"Ever hoe turnips?" enquired Perkins.
"Never," said Cameron, "and I am afraid I won't make much of a fist at it."
"Well, you've come to a good place to learn, eh, Tim! We'll show him, won't we?"
Tim made no reply, but simply handed Cameron a hoe and picked up his own.
"Now, show me, Tim," said Cameron in a low voice, as Perkins and Webster set off on their drills.
"This is how you do it," replied Tim. "Click-click," forward and back went Tim's sharp shining instrument, leaving a single plant standing shyly alone where had boldly bunched a score or more a moment before. "Click-click-click," and the flat-topped drill stood free of weeds and superfluous turnip plants and trimmed to its proper roof-like appearance.
"I say!" exclaimed Cameron, "this is high art. I shall never reach your class, though, Tim."
"Oh, shucks!" said Tim, "slash in, don't be afraid." Cameron slashed in. "Click-click," "Click-click-click," when lo! a long blank space of drill looked up reproachfully at him.
"Oh, Tim! look at this mess," he said in disgust.
"Never mind!" said Tim, "let her rip. Better stick one in though.
Blanks look bad at the END of the drill." So saying, he made a hole in Cameron's drill and with his hoe dug up a bunch of plants from another drill and patted them firmly into place, and, weeding out the unnecessary plants, left a single turnip in its proper place.
"Oh, come, that isn't so bad," said Cameron. "We can always fill up the blanks."
"Yes, but it takes time," replied Tim, evidently with the racing fever in his blood. Patiently Tim schooled his pupil throughout the forenoon, and before the dinner hour had come Cameron was making what to Tim appeared satisfactory progress. It was greatly in Cameron's favor that he possessed a trained and true eye and a steady hand and that he was quick in all his movements.
"You're doin' splendid," cried Tim, full of admiration.
"I say, Scotty!" said Perkins, coming up and casting a critical eye along Cameron's last drill, "you're going to make a turnip-hoer all right."
"I've got a good teacher, you see," cried Cameron.
"You bet you have," said Perkins. "I taught Tim myself, and in two or three years he'll be almost as good as I am, eh, Tim!"
"Huh!" grunted Tim, contemptuously, but let it go at that.
"Perhaps you think you're that now, eh, Tim?" said Perkins, seizing the boy by the back of the neck and rubbing his hand over his hair in a manner perfectly maddening. "Don't you get too perky, young feller, or I'll hang your shirt on the fence before the day's done."
Tim wriggled out of his grasp and kept silent. He was not yet ready with his challenge. All through the afternoon he stayed behind with Cameron, allowing the other two to help them out at the end of each drill, but as the day wore on there was less and less need of assistance for Cameron, for he was making rapid progress with his work and Tim was able to do, not only his own drill, but almost half of Cameron's as well. By supper time Cameron was thoroughly done out. Never had a day seemed so long, never had he known that he possessed so many muscles in his back. The continuous stooping and the steady click-click of the hoe, together with the unceasing strain of hand and eye, and all this under the hot burning rays of a June sun, so exhausted his vitality that when the cow bell rang for supper it seemed to him a sound more delightful than the strains of a Richter orchestra in a Beethoven symphony.
On the way back to the field after supper Cameron observed that Tim was in a state of suppressed excitement and it dawned upon him that the hour of his challenge of Perkins' supremacy as a turnip-hoer was at hand.
"I say, Tim, boy!" he said earnestly, "listen to me. You are going to get after Perkins this evening, eh?"
"How did you know?" said Tim, in surprise.
"Never mind! Now listen to me; I have raced myself some and I have trained men to race. Are you not too tired with your day's work?"
"Tired! Not a bit," said the gallant little soul scornfully.
"Well, all right. It's nice and cool and you can't hurt yourself much. Now, how many drills do you do after supper as a rule?"
"Down and up twice," said Tim.
"How many drills can you do at your top speed, your very top speed, remember?"
"About two drills, I guess," replied Tim, after a moment's thought.
"Now, listen to me!" said Cameron impressively. "Go quietly for two and a half drills, then let yourself out and go your best.
And, listen! I have been watching you this afternoon. You have easily done once and a half what Perkins has done and you are going to lick him out of his boots."
Tim gulped a moment or two, looked at his friend with glistening eyes, but said not a word. For the first two and a half drills Cameron exerted to the highest degree his conversational powers with the two-fold purpose of holding back Perkins and Webster and also of so occupying Tim's mind that he might forget for a time the approaching conflict, the strain of waiting for which he knew would be exhausting for the lad. But when the middle of the second last drill had been reached, Tim began unconsciously to quicken his speed.
"I say, Tim," called Cameron, "come here! Am I getting these spaces too wide?" Tim came over to his side. "Now, Tim," said Cameron, in a low voice, "wait a little longer; you can never wear him out. Your only chance is in speed. Wait till the last drill."
But Tim was not to be held back. Back he went to his place and with a rush brought his drill up even with Webster, passed him, and in a few moments like a whirlwind passed Perkins and took the lead.
"Hello, Timmy! where are you going?" asked Perkins, in surprise.
"Home," said Tim proudly, "and I'll tell 'em you're comin'."
"All right, Timmy, my son!" replied Perkins with a laugh, "tell them you won't need no hot bath; I'm after you."
