if you are going to deal so closely with me.”
Seth Tarbox frowned, and looked perplexed. But presently an idea came to him and his face smoothed.
“Perhaps we can fix it, Grant,” he said in a conciliatory tone.
Grant felt encouraged. It looked as if his request were to be granted.
“I shall be very much obliged to you,” he said.
“Wait a minute! You aint got my idea. Your mother has money.”
“What if she has?” asked Grant suspiciously.
“If she will lend you ten or twelve dollars to buy a suit I’ll make it up to her in, say three or four months.”
Grant’s face darkened. He knew very well that the money never would be repaid, and he penetrated the crafty design of his step-father.
“No, Mr. Tarbox,” he said. “My mother’s money must not be touched. There’s little enough of it, and I don’t want her to run the risk of losing it.”
“But she won’t lose it. Didn’t I say I would pay it back?”
“Why can’t you advance the money yourself?”
“Didn’t I tell you money was skerce?” said Seth Tarbox irritably.
“I know you’ve got money in two savings banks, besides some railroad bonds. Tom Wilson told me the other day that you had over five thousand dollars in money and bonds.”
“Tom Wilson don’t know anything about my affairs,” said Tarbox hastily. “I’ll think it over, Grant, and mebbe – I won’t promise – I’ll see what I can do for you. Now we’ll go to work. It’s a sin to be idle.”
CHAPTER II
RODNEY BARTLETT
Mr. Tarbox’s farm was located in Woodburn, rather a small town in Iowa. He was originally from Connecticut, but at the age of thirty removed to the then frontier Western State. He owned a large farm, which he had bought at the government price of one dollar and a quarter an acre. He also owned a smaller farm a mile and a half west of the one he occupied, and this he cultivated on shares. It had been a lucky purchase, for a railway intersected it, and he had obtained a large price for the land used. Besides his two farms, he had from six to seven thousand dollars in money; yet it seemed that the richer he grew the meaner he became. He had a married daughter, living in Crestville, six miles away, and when he died she and her family would no doubt inherit the miserly farmer’s possessions. Like her father she was selfish and close so far as others were concerned, but she was willing to spend money on herself. She had a son about the age of Grant, who liked to wear good clothes, and was something of a dude. His name was Rodney Bartlett, and he looked down with infinite contempt on his grandfather’s hard-working stepson.
Just before twelve o’clock a smart looking buggy drove into the yard. The occupants of the buggy were Rodney and his mother.
“Hey, you!” he called out to Grant, “come and hold the horse while we get out.”
Grant came forward and did as he was requested. Had Rodney been alone he would not have heeded the demand, but Mrs. Bartlett’s sex claimed deference, though he did not like her.
“Just go in and tell your mother we’ve come to dinner.”
But Grant was spared the trouble, for the farmer came up at this moment.
“Howdy do, Sophia!” he said. “What sent you over?”
“I wanted to consult you about a little matter of business, father. I hope Mrs. Tarbox will have enough dinner for us.”
“I reckon so, I reckon so,” said Seth Tarbox, who, to do him justice, was not mean as regarded the table. “How’s your husband?”
“Oh, he’s ailing as usual. He’s lazy and shiftless, and if it wasn’t for me I don’t know what would become of us.”
By this time the two had entered the house. Rodney stayed behind, and glanced superciliously at Grant.
“Seems to me you’re looking shabbier than ever,” he said.
“You’re right there,” said Grant bitterly, “but it isn’t my fault.”
“Whose is it?”
“Your grandfather’s. He won’t buy me any clothes.”
“Well, you’re not kin to him.”
“I know that, but I work hard and earn a great deal more than I get.”
“I don’t know about that. Maybe I can hunt up one of my old suits for you,” Rodney added patronizingly.
“Thank you, but I don’t want anybody’s cast-off clothes; at any rate, not yours.”
“You’re getting proud,” sneered Rodney.
“You can call it that if you like.”
“Don’t you wish you was me, so you could wear good clothes all the time?”
“I should like to wear the good clothes, but I’d rather be myself than anybody else.”
“Some time I shall be rich,” said Rodney complacently. “I shall have all grandfather’s money.”
“Won’t it go to your mother?”
“Oh, well, she’ll give it to me. I hope you don’t think you and your mother will get any of it?”
“We ought to, for mother is making a slave of herself, but I don’t think we will. If your grandfather would do more for us now we wouldn’t mind inheriting anything.”
There was a tapping on the front window.
“That means dinner, I suppose,” said Grant.
“Are you going to sit down with us?” asked Rodney, eying Grant’s costume with disfavor.
“Yes.”
“In those clothes?”
“I haven’t time to change them. Besides my Sunday suit isn’t much better.”
At the table, toward the close of the meal, Rodney said, “Grandfather, Grant isn’t dressed very well.”
Seth Tarbox frowned.
“Has he been complaining to you?” he asked. “He’s been pesterin’ all the mornin’ about new clothes. I told him money was skerce.”
“I can save you expense, grandfather. I will give him an old suit of mine – one I have cast off.”
“Why, that’s an excellent plan,” said Tarbox, brightening up. “Do you hear that, Grant? You won’t need to buy a new suit for yourself now.”
“I don’t care for any of Rodney’s old clothes,” answered Grant, with an indignant flush.
“Sho! sho! You’re
