Pete, no older than us. Say, Hiram, you'll have trouble with
Pete Dickerson."

"Oh, I guess not," returned the young farmer, laughing. "Trouble
is something that I don't go about hunting for."

"You don't have to hunt it when Pete is round," said Henry with a
wry grin. "But mebbe he won't bother you, for he's workin' near
town--for that new man that's moved into the old Fleigler place.
Bronson's his name. But if Pete don't bother you, Sam may."

"Sam's the father?"

"Yep. And one poor farmer and mean man, if ever there was one!
Oh, Pete comes by his orneriness honestly enough."

"Oh, I hope I'll have no trouble with any neighbor," said Hiram,
hopefully.

They came briskly to the outbuildings belonging to
Mrs. Atterson's newly acquired legacy. Hiram glanced into the
hog lot. She looked like a good sow, and the six-weeks-old
shoats were in good condition. In a couple of weeks they would
be big enough to sell if Mrs. Atterson did not care to raise
them.

The shoats were worth six dollars a pair, too; he had inquired
the day before about them. There was practically eighteen
dollars squealing in that pen--and eighteen dollars would go a
long way toward feeding the horse and cow until there was good