rden, with the hot
sun beating down on him. It was only for a moment he stood there,
longing to follow, then he fell to work again.

Every thud of the hoe, as it struck into the rich earth, kept time to
the refrain which repeated itself over and over in his mind: "The
_hand_ of the _dil_-i-gent _ma_-keth _rich_!" That was the tune to
which he set everything during the two months that followed. He
hurried through his Aunt Jane's chores in an impatient way, doing as
little as possible in order to get back to his own work. She wondered
why he was so absorbed in his garden. When he was not weeding or
watering or planting, he was counting the number of pea-pods on every
vine, or the ears of corn as they tasselled out on each stalk. He had
put brains as well as muscle into his summer's work, asking questions
and advice of every gardener in Bardstown, and carefully reading the
agricultural papers one of them loaned him. Every vegetable he
attempted to raise was a success, and he carried them all three miles
down the road toward the city, to some rich customers that he found in
the elegant suburban homes there. They were willing to pay nearly
double the price that the Bardstown people offered him, everything he
had was so fresh and good.

It was a long way to trudge with his heavy baskets, and he longed
every day for the wheel he was trying so hard to win. "Won't I spin
along then!" he said to himself on more than one occasion, as he
dragged his tired feet homeward.

His Aunt Jane wanted to buy some of his vegetables, and hinted several
times that he might supply the table once in awhile for nothing; but
beyond an occasional contribution in the way of a few inferior
vegetables that he could not sell, he would not part with any at the
price she offered.

"He's a boy after your own heart, Peter Morgan," she complained to her
husband. "He's closer than the bark on a tree."

"Well, that's nothing against him," was the answer. "That's business.
He'll be rich some day. Keep all you get and get all you can is the
only way to get along in the world, according to my notion."

It was the Monday after school was out that Todd Walters also started
to work. He was selling fly-paper on commission for his friend, the
druggist. It was that sticky kind, called "Tanglefoot," that promises
such a pleasant path to the unwary insect, but proves such a snare and
a delusion at the last.

Mrs. Walters waved him good-bye from the kitchen door