Mick remained seated on his horse, bewildered-looking, staring first at
Farmer, then at Dad.
"Well?" Dad remarked, still grinning. Then Mick spoke feelingly.
"YOU SWINDLING OLD CRAWLER!" he said, and galloped away. It was well for
him he got a good start.
For long after that we turned the horses and cows into the little paddock
at night, and if ever the dog barked Dad would jump up and go out in his
shirt.
We put them back into the paddock again, and the first night they were
there two cows got out and went away, taking with them the chain that
fastened the slip-rails. We never saw or heard of them again; but Dad
treasured them in his heart. Often, when he was thoughtful, he would
ponder out plans for getting even with the Donovans--we knew it was the
Donovans. And Fate seemed to be of Dad's mind; for the Donovans got into
"trouble,", and were reported to be "doing time." That pleased Dad; but
the vengeance was a little vague. He would have liked a finger in the pie
himself.
Four years passed. It was after supper, and we were all husking corn in
the barn. Old Anderson and young Tom Anderson and Mrs. Maloney were
helping us.
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