what the young farmer would do with the
Atterson place.

Like other neighbors they doubted if the stranger knew as much about the
practical work of farming as he claimed to know. "That feller from
the city," the neighbors called Hiram behind his back, and that is an
expression that completely condemns a man in the mind of the average
countryman.

"What yer bein' so particular with them furrers for, Hiram?" asked
Henry.

"If a job's worth doing at all, it's worth doing well, isn't it?"
laughed the young farmer.

"We spread our manure broadcast--when we use any at all--for potatoes,"
said Henry, slowly. "Dad says if manure comes in contact with potatoes,
they are apt to rot."

"That seems to be a general opinion," replied Hiram. "And it may be so
under certain conditions. For that reason I am going to make sure that
not much of this fertilizer comes in direct contact with my seed."

"How'll you do that?" "I'll show you," said Hiram.

Having run out his rows and covered the bottom of each furrow several
inches deep with the manure, he ran his plow down one side of each
furrow and turned the soil back upon the fertilizer, covering it and
leaving a well pulverized seed bed for the potatoes to lie in.

"Well," said Henry, "that's a good wrinkle, too."

Hiram had purchased some formalin, mixed it with water according to the
Government expert's instructions, and from time to time soaked his seed
potatoes two hours in the antiseptic bath. In the evening he brought
them into the kitchen and they all--even Old Lem Camp--cut up the
potatoes, leaving two or three good eyes in each piece.

"I'd ruther do this than peel 'em for the boarders," remarked Sister,
looking at her deeply-stained fingers reflectively. "And then, nobody
won't say nothin' about my hands to me when I'm passin' dishes at the
table."

The following day she helped Hiram drop the seed, and by night he had
covered them by running his plow down the other side of the row and
then smoothed the potato plat with a home-made "board" in lieu of a
land-roller.

It was the twentieth of March, and not a farmer in the locality had yet
put in either potatoes, or peas. Some had not as yet plowed for early
potatoes, and Henry Pollock warned Hiram that he was "rushing the
season."

"That may be," declared the young farmer to Mrs. Atterson. "But I
believe the risk is worth taking. If we do get 'em good, we'll get 'em
early and skim the cream of the local market. No