where he once had found and carried home to reset
a big bed of ginseng. If he could get only a half pound of roots
from there now, they would serve his purpose. He went down the bank,
Belshazzar at his heels, and at last found the place. Many trees had
been cut, but there remained enough for shade; the fields bore the
ragged, unattractive appearance of old. The Harvester smiled grimly
as he remembered that the man who lived there once had charged him for
damage he might do to trees in driving across his woods, and boasted to
his neighbours that a young fool was paying for the privilege of doing
his grubbing. If Jameson had known what the roots he was so anxious to
dispose of brought a pound on the market at that time, he would have
been insane with anger. So the Harvester's eyes were dancing with fun
and a wry grin twisted his lips as he clambered over the banks of
the recently dredged river, and looked at its pitiful condition and
straight, muddy flow.

"Appears to match the remainder of the Jameson property," he said. "I
don't know who he is or where he came from, but he's no farmer. Perhaps
he uses this land to corral the stock he buys until he can sell it
again."

He went down the embankment and began to search for the location where
he formerly had found the ginseng. When he came to the place he stood
amazed, for from seed, roots, and plants he had missed, the growth had
sprung up and spread, so that at a rapid estimate the Harvester thought
it contained at least five pounds, allowing for what it would shrink on
account of being gathered early. He hesitated an instant, and thought
of coming later; but the drive was long and the loss would not amount
to enough to pay for a second trip. About taking it, he never thought
at all. He once had permission from the owner to dig all the shrubs,
bushes, and weeds he desired from that stretch of woods, and had paid
for possible damages that might occur. As he bent to the task there did
come a fleeting thought that the patch was weedless and in unusual shape
for wild stuff. Then, with swift strokes of his light mattock, he lifted
the roots, crammed them into his sack, whistled to Belshazzar, and going
back to the wagon, drove away. Reaching home he washed the ginseng,
and spread it on a tray to dry. The first time he wanted the mattock
he realized that he had left it lying where he had worked. It was an
implement that he had directed a blacksmith to fashion to meet his
requi