"Nonsense, Tim! Besides, Perkins isn't a baby. He surely doesn't hold
that against me."
"Huh, huh," said Tim, "everybody's pokin' fun at him, and he hates that,
and ever since the picnic, too, he hates you."
"But why in the world?"
"Oh, shucks!" said Tim, impatient at Cameron's density. "I guess you
know all right."
"Know? Not I!"
"Git out?"
"Honor bright, Tim," replied Cameron, sitting up. "Now, honestly, tell
me, Tim, why in the world Perkins should hate me."
"You put his nose out of joint, I guess," said Tim with a grin.
"Oh, rot, Tim! How?"
"Every how," said Tim, proceeding to elaborate. "First when you came
here you were no good--I mean--" Tim checked himself hastily.
"I know what you mean, Tim. Go on. You are quite right. I couldn't do
anything on the farm."
"Now," continued Tim, "you can do anything jist as good as him--except
bindin', of course. He's a terror at bindin', but at pitchin' and
shockin' and loadin' you're jist as good."
"But, Tim, that's all nonsense. Perkins isn't such a fool as to hate me
because I can keep up my end."
"He don't like you," said Tim stubbornly.
"But why? Why in the name of common sense?"
"Well," said Tim, summing up the situation, "before you come he used to
be the hull thing. Now he's got to play second fiddle.
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