His words, and his tone more than his words, were like a spur to the boy. From some secret source of supply he called up an unsuspected reserve of strength and speed and, still keeping up his clean cutting finished style, foot by foot he drew away from Perkins, who followed in the rear, slashing more wildly than ever.
The race was practically won. Tim was well in the lead, and apparently gaining speed with every click of his hoe.
"Here, you fellers, what are yeh hashin' them turnips for?" It was Haley's voice, who, unperceived, had come into the field. Tim's reply was a letting out of his last ounce of strength in a perfect fury of endeavour.
"There--ain't--no--hashin'--on this--drill--Dad!" he panted.
The sudden demand for careful work, however, at once lowered Perkins' rate of speed. He fell rapidly behind and, after a few moments of further struggle, threw down his hoe with a whoop and called out, "Quitting time, I guess," and, striding after Tim, he caught him by the arms and swung him round clear off the ground.
"Here, let me go!" gasped the boy, kicking, squirming, and trying to strike his antagonist with his hoe.
"Let the boy go!" said Cameron. The tone in his voice arrested Perkins' attention.
"What's your business?" he cried, with an oath, dropping the boy and turning fiercely upon Cameron.
"Oh, nothing very much, except that Tim's my candidate in this race and he mustn't be interfered with," replied Cameron in a voice still quiet and with a pleasant smile.
Perkins was white and panting; in a moment more he would have hurled himself at the man who stood smiling quietly in his face.
At this critical moment Haley interposed.
"What's the row, boys?" he enquired, recognising that something serious was on.
"We have been having a little excitement, Sir, in the form of a race," replied Cameron, "and I've been backing Tim."
"Looks as if you've got him wound up so's he can't stop," replied Haley, pointing to the boy, who was still going at racing pace and was just finishing his drill. "Oh, well, a boy's a boy and you've got to humour him now and then," continued Haley, making conversation with diplomatic skill. Then turning to Perkins, as if dismissing a trivial subject, he added, "Looks to me as if that hay in the lower meadow is pretty nigh fit to cut. Guess we'd better not wait till next week. You best start Tim on that with the mower in the mornin'." Then, taking a survey of the heavens, he added, "Looks as if it might be a spell of good weather." His diplomacy was successful and the moment of danger was past. Meantime Cameron had sauntered to the end of the drill where Tim stood leaning quietly on his hoe.
"Tim, you are a turnip-hoer!" he said, with warm admiration in his tone, "and what's more, Tim, you're a sport. I'd like to handle you in something big. You will make a man yet."
Tim's whole face flushed a warm red under the coat of freckles.
For a time he stood silently contemplating the turnips, then with difficulty he found his voice.
"It was you done it," he said, choking over his words. "I was beat there and was just quittin' when you came along and spoke. My!" he continued, with a sharp intake of his breath, "I was awful near quittin'," and then, looking straight into Cameron's eyes, "It was you done it, and--I--won't forget." His voice choked again, but, reading his eyes, Cameron knew that he had gained one of life's greatest treasures, a boy's adoring gratitude.
"This has been a great day, Tim," said Cameron. "I have learned to hoe turnips, and," putting his hand on the boy's shoulder, "I believe I have made a friend." Again the hot blood surged into Tim's face. He stood voiceless, but he needed no words. Cameron knew well the passionate emotion that thrilled his soul and shook the slight body, trembling under his hand. For Tim, too, it had been a notable day. He had achieved the greatest ambition of his life in beating the best turnip-hoer on the line, and he, too, had found what to a boy is a priceless treasure, a man upon whom he could lavish the hero worship of his soul.
