pragmatic accomplishment, and--" he was saying when we came out of the
woods onto the southern slope, where lie the long rows of peas, which
are making Sam's fortune. He got them in by working two days and all one
night in a bright spell in mid-February, and nobody for twenty miles
around has any, while he has more than he can gather to market at a top
price; that is, more than he can gather himself with Byrd's assistance,
he explained to us, as he showed us just how to snap the pod against our
thumbs.

"I ought to put five barrels into Hayesboro every day now for a week
before anybody else gets any," he said, as he squatted at the head of a
row between Peter and me, and we all began to pull at the beautiful
gray-green vines and snap off the full, green pods. I looked across at
poor, innocent, enthusiastic Peter and saw his finish.

About three o'clock I saw my own finish, and threw up the basket.

"You poor, dear child!" exclaimed Peter as he came stiffly across the
row Sam had long since finished. He, Sam, was four rows ahead of us, and
a quarter of a mile away, more or less. I had collapsed, with my tired
legs stuck out in front of me and my thumb, swollen from snapping the
pods, in my mouth. "This is too hard work for you."

"Yes, it is; but Sam won't think so," I answered, with a glance at the
strong, broad back swinging so easily down the slope. "Now, Peter, we
must go right along picking the peas. Sam must get those five barrels,"
I said, as I hastily scrambled up and began to pull at the vicious vines
again.

"Well, I certainly don't intend to stop until they are filled," answered