"Eddication!" said Tom in disgust "I never had any, and I get along better'n if I had. Take figuring. If a fellow owes me money, I take a burnt stick and make a mark on the wall. When he pays me, I take a dishrag and wipe the mark off. That's better than getting all hot and bothered trying to figure.

"And writing? I can write my name and that's all the writing I need. But the most tomfoolery of all is reading. You don't see _me_ waste _my_ time reading any books."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The path ended at the edge of the woods, and Tom opened the gate into the Carter cornfield. Row after row of tall corn stretched away in even, straight lines. Mr. Carter was waiting.

"Ready to sign over that south field, Tom?" he asked. "A lawyer from Rockport is drawing up the papers. He is riding up with them this morning. I'll see you at dinner time."

After John Carter had gone back to his cabin, Tom and Abe set to work.

Using their sharp knives, they began cutting the corn close to the ground. They stood the tall golden stalks on end, tying them together in neat shocks or bundles. By the time the sun stood directly overhead, several long rows had been cut and stacked, and John Carter was coming toward them across the field. It was noon.

Abe laid aside his knife, sat down on the rail fence, and pulled out his book. He took a piece of cornbread wrapped in a corn husk from his pocket. As he ate, he read, paying no attention to the conversation taking place a few feet away.

"Come and sit down, Tom," said Carter.

Tom sat on a tree stump. Carter was being more friendly than usual. He was carrying a gourd full of ink, which he placed on another stump. He set down a deerskin bag, which jingled pleasantly with coins. In one pocket he found a turkey-buzzard pen. From another he brought out an official-looking paper.

"Here is the deed for the south field," he explained. "Here's a pen.

I'll hold the ink for you. You make your mark right here."

"I don't need to make my mark," said Tom proudly. "I know how to sign my name."

"Then hurry up and do it. Mrs. Carter has dinner ready, and I got to get back to the house."

Tom took the paper and looked at it uncertainly. "I don't sign any paper till I know what I'm signing. I want time to--to go over this careful like."

He could make out a few of the words, and that was all. But not for anything would he admit that he could not read it.

"You told me you wanted to sell," said Carter. "I said I would buy. I am keeping my part of the bargain. I even brought the money with me."

Tom's face grew red. He looked down at the paper in his hand. He glanced at Abe seated on the fence. A struggle was taking place between pride and common sense. Common sense won.

"Abe, come here," he called.

Abe went on reading.

Tom raised his voice. "Abe! When I tell you to come, I mean for you to come."

The boy looked up from his book with a start. "Yes, Pa. Did you want me?"

"Hustle over here and look at this paper. Carter is in a mighty big hurry for me to sign something I ain't had a chance to read."

"You have had plenty of time to read it," said Carter. "But if you don't want to sell, I can call the whole deal off."

Abe reached out a long arm and took the paper. He read it slowly. "Pa,"

he asked, "don't you aim to sell Mr. Carter just the south field?"

"You know I'm selling him just the south field," said Tom.

"Then don't sign this."

Carter picked up the money bag clanking with coins. He tossed it into the air and caught it neatly. Tom looked at it. He wanted that money! He looked at Abe.

"Why shouldn't I sign?" he asked.

"If you do, you'll be selling Mr. Carter most of your farm."

John Carter was furious. "Don't try to tell me a country jake like you can read! That paper says the south field, as plain as the nose on your face."

"It says that and a sight more, Mr. Carter," Abe drawled. "It says the north field, too. It says the east and the west fields. There wouldn't be much farm left for Pa, except the part our cabin is setting on."

A dispute between men in Pigeon Creek usually ended in a fight. Tom Lincoln doubled up his fists. "Put them up, Carter."

The two men rolled over and over in a confused tangle of arms and legs.

Now Tom Lincoln was on top. Now it was John Carter. "Go it, Pa," Abe shouted from the fence. "Don't let that old skinflint get you down."

After a few minutes. Carter lay on his back gasping for breath.

"Nuf!" he cried, and Tom let him scramble to his feet.

Carter began brushing himself off. "It ain't fitting to fight a neighbor," he whined, "just because of a mistake."

"Mistake nothing!" Tom snorted. "Somebody lied, and it wasn't Abe."

"I'll have a new paper made out, if you like," said Carter.

Tom looked at him with scorn. "You ain't got enough money to buy my south field. But I'll thank you for the ten cents you owe us. Abe and I each did a half day's work."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Tom's right eye was swelling, and by the time he reached home it was closed. The b.u.mp on the side of his head was the size of a hen's egg.

There was a long scratch down his cheek.

Sarah was kneeling before the fireplace, raking ashes over the potatoes that she had put in to bake. She jumped up in alarm.

"What's the matter? What happened?" she asked.

"It was like Pa said," Abe told her. "Mr. Carter is a skinflint."

Sarah took Tom by the arm and made him sit down on a stool. She touched the swollen eye with gentle fingers.

"It don't hurt much," he said.

"I reckon Mr. Carter hurts more," Abe spoke up again. "He has two black eyes."

Tom slapped his thigh and roared with laughter. "He sure does. But if it hadn't been for Abe--"

He stopped, embarra.s.sed. Sarah was soaking a cloth in a basin of cold water. She laid it on his eye.