wares from a wagon to the denizens of Craigswold, the new colony
of rich folk, four miles to northward.

But to raise such vegetables and fruits as would tempt the eyes
and the purses of Craigswold people it was necessary to have more
than mere zeal and industry. Sour ground will not readily yield
sweet abundance, be the toiler ever so industrious. Moreover,
there was large and growing competition, in the form of other
huckster routes.

And presently the old veteran wearied of the eternal uphill
struggle. He mortgaged the farm, dying soon afterward. And Link,
his son, was left to carry on the thankless task.

Link Ferris was as much a part of the Ferris farm as was the
giant bowlder in the south mowing. He had been born in the
paintless shack which his father had built with his own rheumatic
hands. He had worked for more than a quarter century, in and out
of the hill fields and the ramshackle barns. From babyhood he had
toiled there. Scant had been the chances for schooling, and more
scant had been the opportunities for outside influence.

Wherefore, Link had grown to a wirily weedy and slouching
manhood, almost as ignorant of the world beyond his mountain
walls as were any of his own "critters." His life was bounded by
fruitless labor, varied only by such sleep and food as might fit
him to labor the harder.

He ate and slept, that he might be able to work. And he worked,
that he might be able to eat and sleep. Beyond that, his life was