Andy at Yale

The farmer growled out something unintelligible.

"We ought to do you up good and brown!" exclaimed Tom, his fists clenched.

"He's only playing off on me--he ain't hurt a mite!" growled the farmer. "He's only fakin' on me."

"I certainly am not," spoke the young fellow in firm but respectful terms. "I sprained my arm unloading your wagon, Mr. Snad, and I can't drive the team any more to-day. I put my handkerchief around it because the sprain hurt me so. I certainly can't work!" His voice faltered and he choked. His spirit seemed as much hurt as his body--perhaps more.

"Huh! Can't work, eh? Then get out!" snarled Mr. Snad. "I want no loafer around here! Get out!"

"I'm perfectly willing to go when you pay me what you owe me," said the helper, quietly.

"Owe you! I don't owe you nothin', you lazy lout!" snapped the farmer.

"You certainly do. You owe me twelve dollars, and as soon as you pay me I'll get out, and