the road which ran past the house, from Crumville to Dixonville. Caspar Potts came out to aid him, but soon had to give up through sheer weakness.
"I—I can't do it," he panted. "It takes all the breath out of me."
"Sit down in the shade and rest," said Dave. "I can easily hoe the corn alone."
It was approaching noon when a buggy hove into sight on the road. It was drawn by a fine-looking horse and came forward at a spanking gait. In the buggy was a portly man of fifty, with a dark face and heavy black mustache, Mr. Aaron Poole.
"Mr. Poole!" murmured Caspar Potts, "I—I wish I was stronger to-day!"
"Let me help you to the house," answered Dave, and caught him by the arm. They had barely reached the porch when Aaron Poole strode up the dooryard path and confronted them.
"Good-morning, Mr. Poole," said Caspar Potts, politely. "Will you walk in and have a chair?"
"No, I just as soon stay out here," was the brusque answer. "I suppose you know what I am here for?" went on the newcomer, with a sharp look at first the old man and then at Dave.
"Yes, I know," answered Caspar Potts, feebly.
"I believe you told my son you couldn't pay that interest money."
"Not just yet, Mr. Poole. In a short while—perhaps a few weeks—when I am well again——"
