"Praying won't do this land any good," Samson answered. "What it needs
is manure and plenty of it. You can't raise anything here but fleas. It
isn't decent to expect God to help run a flea farm. He knows too much for
that, and if you keep it up He'll lose all respect for ye. If you were to
buy another farm and bring it here and put it down on top o' this one,
you could probably make a living. I wouldn't like to live where the wind
could dig my potatoes."

Again the stranger leaned toward Samson and said in a half-whisper: "Say,
mister, I wouldn't want you to mention it, but talkin' o' fleas, I'm like
a dog with so many of 'em that he don't have time to eat. Somebody has
got to soap him or he'll die. You see, I traded my farm over in Vermont
for five hundred acres o' this sheet lightnin', unsight an' unseen. We
was all crazy to go West an' here we are. If it wasn't for the deer an'
the fish I guess we'd 'a' starved to death long ago."

"Where did ye come from?"

"Orwell, Vermont."

"What's yer name?"

"Henry Brimstead," the stranger whispered.

"Son of Elijah Brimstead?"

"Yes, sir."

Samson took his hand and shook it warmly. "Well, I declare!" he
exclaimed. "Elijah Brimstead was a friend o' my father."