him if he were going to the circus. Mr. Wheeler winked.

“I shouldn’t wonder if I happened in town sometime before the

elephants get away.” He spoke very deliberately, with a

State-of-Maine drawl, and his voice was smooth and agreeable.

“You boys better start in early, though. You can take the wagon

and the mules, and load in the cowhides. The butcher has agreed

to take them.”

Claude put down his knife. “Can’t we have the car? I’ve washed it

on purpose.”

“And what about Dan and Jerry? They want to see the circus just

as much as you do, and I want the hides should go in; they’re

bringing a good price now. I don’t mind about your washing the

car; mud preserves the paint, they say, but it’ll be all right

this time, Claude.”

The hired men haw-hawed and Ralph giggled. Claude’s freckled face

got very red. The pancake grew stiff and heavy in his mouth and

was hard to swallow. His father knew he hated to drive the mules

to town, and knew how he hated to go anywhere with Dan and Jerry.

As for the hides, they were the skins of four steers that had

perished in the blizzard last winter through the wanton

carelessness of these same hired men, and the price they would

bring would not half pay for the time his father had spent in

stripping and curing them. They had lain in a shed loft all

summer, and the wagon had been to town a dozen times. But today,

when he wanted to go to Frankfort clean and care-free, he must

take these stinking hides and two coarse-mouthed men, and drive a

pair of mules that always brayed and balked and behaved

ridiculously in a crowd. Probably his father had looked out of

the window and seen him washing the car, and had put this up on

him while he dressed. It was like his father’s idea of a joke.

Mrs. Wheeler looked at Claude sympathetically, feeling that he

was disappointed. Perhaps she, too, suspected a joke. She had

learned that humour might wear almost any guise.

When Claude started for the barn after breakfast, she came

running down the path, calling to him faintly,—hurrying always

made her short of breath. Overtaking him, she looked up with

solicitude, shading her eyes with her delicately formed hand. “If

you want I should do up your linen coat, Claude, I can iron it

while you’re hitching,” she said wistfully.

Claude stood kicking at a bunch of mottled feathers that had once

been a young chicken. His shoulders were drawn high, his mother

saw, and his figure suggested energy and determined self-control.

“You needn’t mind, mother.” He spoke rapidly, muttering his

words. “I’d better wear my old clothes if I have to take the

hides. They’re greasy, and in the sun they’ll smell worse than

fertilizer.”

“The men can handle the hides, I should think. Wouldn’t you feel

better in town to be dressed?” She was still blinking up at him.

“Don’t bother about it. Put me out a clean coloured shirt, if you

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