uth shut and saw wood while he thought
a thing like that out. I'm willing to call him Boss, all right. He's
got more in his head than sand cement, too. Last night, we was coming
home just before supper. He's been on the job since four in the morning
and I knew he had to get back and work half the night on office work.
And I says:

"'Boss, what will you get out of it to pay you for half killing yourself
this way?'

"He didn't answer me for a long time, then he begun to tell me a story
about how he and another fellow went through the Makon canyon and how
that other fellow felt about it and how he was drowned and how he had
some verses that that fellow taught him printed on his gravestone.
Thought I'd remember those lines. They made me feel more religious than
anything I've heard at church. Something about Sons of Martha."

Pen had been listening, her heart in her eyes, trying not to envy Oscar
his long days with Jim. Now she leaned forward eagerly.

"Oh, I know what he quoted to you:

"'Lift ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more or flat,
Lo, it is black already with blood, some Son of Martha spilled for that.
Not as a ladder from Earth to Heaven, not as an altar to any creed,
But simple Service, simply given, to their own kind, in their
common need.'"

The three sat silent for a moment, then Oscar nodded. "That's them. He
said he never got their full meaning till just lately and now he's
trying to live up to 'em. I'm perfectly willing to call him Boss."

Pen and Jane were not finding the farmers' wives easy to influence.
Their task was a double one. First they had to rouse interest in the
coming election and then they had to persuade the women that their
husbands were wrong. Moreover, after the first week or so, they found
that Penelope's presence was a hindrance rather than a help. It was
after their call on Mrs. Hunt that they reluctantly reached this
conclusion.

Bill rattled them up to a bungalow on one of the new ranches. The Hunts
were newcomers, having bad luck with their first attempts at irrigation.
Mrs. Hunt was a hearty looking woman of forty. Pen stated the object of
the call.

"I never had any interest in politics," said Mrs. Hunt. "I was always
too busy with my family to gallivant around."

Jane and Pen plunged earnestly into explanations. When they had
finished, Mrs. Hunt said:

"I can see why Mrs. Ames is so interested. But why should you be, Mrs.
Sardox? I