Ted and the Telephone | Page 5

say so! I was born in the Green Mountains," was the quick retort. "Where did you live?"
"Newfane."
Instantly the man's face lighted.
"I know that place well. And you came from Newfane here? How did you happen to do that?"
"My father could not make the farm pay and we needed money."
"Humph! Were you sorry to give up farming?"
"Yes, sir. I didn't want to come to Freeman's Falls. But," added the boy brightening, "I like the school here."
The manager paused, studying the sharp, eager face, the spare figure, and the fine carriage of the lad before him.
"Do you like haying?" asked he presently.
"Not particularly," Ted owned with honesty.
Mr. Wharton laughed.
"I see you are a human boy," he said. "If you don't like it, why are you so anxious to do it now?"
"I've got to earn some money or give up going to school in the fall."
"Oh, so that's it! And what are you working at in school that is so alluring?" demanded the man with a quizzical glance.
"Electricity."
"Electricity!"
"Wireless, telegraphs, telephones, and things like that," put in Ted.
For comment Mr. Wharton tipped back in his chair and once more let his eye wander over the boy's face; then he wheeled abruptly around to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a yellow card across which he scrawled a line with his fountain pen.
"You may begin work to-morrow morning," he remarked curtly. "If it is pleasant, Stevens will be cutting the further meadow with a gang of men. Come promptly at eight o'clock, prepared to stay all day, and bring this card with you."
He waved the bit of pasteboard to and fro in the air an instant to be certain that the ink on it was dry and afterward handed it to Ted. Instinctively the boy's gaze dropped to the message written upon it and before he realized it he had read the brief words:
"Ted Turner. He says he has farmed in Vermont. If he shows any evidence of it keep him. If not turn him off. Wharton."
The man in the chair watched him as he read.
"Well?" said he.
"I beg your pardon, sir. I did not mean to read it," Ted replied with a start. "I'm very much obliged to you for giving me the job."
"I don't see that you've got it yet."
"But I shall have," asserted the lad confidently. "All I asked was a chance."
"That's all the world gives any of us," responded the manager gruffly, as he drew forth a sheet of paper and began to write. "Nobody can develop our brains, train our muscles, or save our souls but ourselves."
With this terse observation he turned his back on the boy, and after loitering a moment to make sure that he had nothing more to say, the lad slipped away, triumphantly bearing with him the coveted morsel of yellow pasteboard. That its import was noncommittal and even contained a tang of skepticism troubled him not a whit. The chief thing was that he had wrested from the manager an opportunity, no matter how grudgingly accorded, to show what he was worth. He could farm and he knew it and he had no doubt that he could demonstrate the fact to any boss he might encounter.
Therefore with high courage he was promptly on hand the next morning and even before the time assigned he approached Stevens, the superintendent.
"What do you want, youngster?" demanded the man sharply. He was in a hurry and it was obvious that something had nettled him and that he was in no humor to be delayed.
"I came to help with the haying."
"We don't want any boys as young as you," Stevens returned, moving away.
"I've a card from Mr. Wharton."
"A card, eh? Why didn't you say so in the first place? Shell it out."
Shyly Ted produced his magic fragment of paper which the overseer read with disapproval in his glance.
"Well, since Wharton wants you tried out, you can pitch in with the crowd," grumbled he. "But I still think you're too young. I've had boys your age before and never found them any earthly use. However, you won't be here long if you're not--that's one thing. You'll find a pitchfork in the barn. Follow along behind the men who are mowing and spread the grass out."
"I know."
"Oh, you do, do you! Trust people your size for knowing everything."
To the final remark the lad vouchsafed no reply. Instead he moved away and soon returned, fork in hand. What a flood of old memories came surging back with the touch of the implement! Again he was in Vermont in the stretch of mowings that fronted the old white house where he was born. The scent of the hay in his nostrils stirred him like an elixir, and with a thrill of pleasure he set to work. He had not anticipated toiling out