From a doer of odd jobs of wood-sawing, house-cleaning, and
stove-polishing he had risen to the dignity of a market gardener. A
small house and a large garden a block away from my place were now
rented by him. Also he caught fish, snared rabbits, gathered the wild
fruits in their seasons, and was janitor of the Methodist church; all
this in addition to looking after my own home. It was not surprising
that he had money in the bank. He worked unceasingly. The earliest
risers in Little Arcady found him already busied, and those abroad
latest at night would see or hear him about the little unpainted house
in the big garden.
I suspect he had come out into the strange world of the North with
large, loose notions that the fortune he needed might be speedily
amassed. Such tales had been told him in his Southland, where he had not
learned to question or doubt. If so, his disappointment was not to be
seen in his bearing. That look of patient endurance may have eaten a
little deeper the lines about his inky eyes, but I am sure his purpose
had never wavered, nor his faith that he would win at last.
As I ate my breakfast that morning he told me of his good year. The
early produce of his garden had sold well.
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