VIII. Ben's Gang

The harvest time in Ontario is ever a season of delightful rush and bustle. The fall wheat follows hard upon the haying, and close upon the fall wheat comes the barley, then the oats and the rest of the spring grain.

It was this year to be a more than usually busy time for the Boyle boys. They had a common purse, and out of that purse the payments on the mortgage must be met, as well as Dick's college expenses. For the little farm, with the profits from the mill, could do little more than provide a living for the family. Ordinarily the lads worked for day's wages, the farmers gladly paying the highest going, for the boys were famous binders and good workers generally. This year, however, they had in mind something more ambitious.

"Mother," said Dick, "did you hear of the new harvesting gang?"

"And who might they be?" asked his mother, always on the lookout for some nonsense from her younger son.

"Boyle and Fallows--or Fallows and Boyle, I guess it will be. Ben's starting with us Monday morning."

"Nonsense, laddie. There will be no reaping for Ben this year, I doubt, poor fellow; and, besides, I will be needing him for myself."

"Yes. But I am in earnest, mother. Ben is to drive the reaper for us. He can sit on the reaper half a day, you know. At least, his doctor here says so. And he will keep us busy."

"If I cawn't keep the two of you a-humpin', though you are some pumpkins at bindin', I hain't worth my feed."

"But, Barney," remonstrated his mother, "is he fit to go about that machine? Something might happen the lad."

"I don't think there is any danger, mother. And, besides, we will be at hand all the time."

"And what will two lads like you do following the machine all day? You will only be hurting yourselves."

"You watch us, mother," cried Dick. "We'll be after Ben like a dog after a coon."

"Indeed," said his mother. "I have heard that it takes four good men to keep up to a machine. It was no later than yesterday that Mr. Morrison's Sam was telling me that they had all they could do to follow up, the whole four of them."

"Huh!" grunted Dick scornfully, "I suppose so. Four like Fatty Morrison and that gang of his!"

"Hush, laddie. It is not good to be speaking ill of your neighbours," said his mother.

"It's not speaking ill to say that a man is fat. It's a very fine compliment, mother. Only wish someone could say the same of me."

"Indeed, and you would be the better of it," replied his mother compassionately, "with your bones sticking through your skin!"

It was with the spring crop that Ben Fallows began his labours; and much elevated, indeed, was he at the