"So she turns her part of the contract over to you two chits of gals; does she?" said Mr. Pritchett, at last. "Humph! I don't think much of that, now I tell ye."
"Mr. Pritchett," said Lyddy, firmly, "if you don't care to work the farm for us on half shares, as you have heretofore with Aunt Jane, pray say so. I assure you we will not be offended."
"Get some other neighboring farmer to do so," replied Lyddy, promptly.
"Oh, you will, eh?" growled Cyrus Pritchett, sitting forward and resting his big hands on his knees, while he glared like an angry dog at the slight girl before him.
The kitchen was quite still save for his booming voice. The family was evidently afraid of the old man's outbursts of temper.
But Lyddy Bray's courage rose with her indignation. This cross old farmer was a mere bully after all, and there was never a bully yet who was not a moral coward!
"Mr. Pritchett," she told him, calmly, "you cannot frighten me by shouting at me. I may as well tell you right now that the crops you have raised for Aunt Jane of late years have not been satisfactory. We expect a better crop this year, and if you do not wish to put it in, some other neighbor will.
"This is a good time to decide the matter. What do you say?"
Mrs. Pritchett and Sairy really were frightened by Lyddy Bray's temerity. As for Lucas, he still hung his head and would not look at his father.
Cyrus Pritchett had bullied his family so long that to be bearded in his own house certainly amazed him. He glared at the girl for fully a minute, without being able to formulate any reply. Then he burst out with:
"You let me ketch any other man on this ridge puttin' a plow inter the old doctor's land! I've tilled it for years, I tell ye----"
"And you can till it again, Mr. Pritchett," said Lyddy, softly. "You needn't holler so about it--we all hear you."
"So, now it's understood," she went on, smiling at him brightly. "And we'll try this year to make a little better crop. We really must get something more out of it than the taxes."
"Jane Hammon' won't buy no fertilizer," growled Mr. Pritchett, put on the defensive--though he couldn't tell why. "An' ye can't grow corn on run-down land without potash an' kainit, and the like."