Page:St. Nicholas, vol. 40.1 (1912-1913).djvu/202

110 lett’n’ ’em pass by. Let ’s see how the pertaters turned out.”

Martin Luther’s potatoes had failed to win. They lay just between the lots which had drawn the first and second prizes, and even the boy’s inexperienced eyes could see they were inferior to the others.

“They bake well,” murmured Aunt ’Phroney, “an’ they bile jus’ fine; but they ain’t so pretty as them others, thet ’s a fact. I guess Mart’n Luther won't hev to give me any of his prize-money this year—’specially as he don’t git any.”

“Did n’t you say you had a chicken in the show?” asked the boy.

“Yes, an’ a mighty fine rooster he is, if I do say it. I ’ve looked after him myself, ever since he were an egg, an’ he ’s that high an’ mighty, I named him ‘The Bishop.’ Seems to me he ’ll be hard to beat, but p’r’aps when he ’s compared to others, the Bishop ‘ll be like the apples an’ ‘taters.”

“Where is he?”

“The poultry show ’ll be in a tent somewheres.”

“Let ’s find him,” said the boy, almost as interested as his companion.

They inquired the way, and, in passing through the grounds to the poultry tent, they passed a crowd surrounding one of those fakers so prominent at every country fair. Aunt ’Phroney wanted to see what was going on, so the boy drew her dexterously through the circle of spectators. As soon as they reached a place of observation, the old woman gave a violent start and grabbed her escort’s arm. A lean, round-shouldered man with chin whiskers was tossing rings at a board filled with jack-knives of all sizes and shapes, in a vain endeavor to “ring” one of them. He failed, and the crowd jeered. Then he drew a leather wallet from his pocket, unstrapped it, and withdrew a coin with which he purchased more delusive rings. The boy felt Aunt ’Phroney trembling beside him.

“See that ol’ feller yonder?” she asked.

“Yes,” said he.

“That ’s Mart’n Luther!”

They watched him with breathless interest, but not one of the rings he threw managed to capture a knife. Others tried them, undeterred by the failure of the old farmer, and, after watching them a short time, out came Martin Luther’s leather pocket-book again.

“Come!” whispered the woman, in deep distress; “let ’s go afore I faint dead away! Who ’d believe Mart’n Luther could be sech a spen’thrift an’ prodigal? I did n’t b’lieve ’t was in him.”

The boy said nothing, but led her out of the crowd. To solace his companion’s grief, he “treated” Aunt ’Phroney to pink lemonade, which had the effect of decidedly cheering her up. They found the poultry tent almost deserted, and, after a brief search, the woman recognized the Bishop. A man down the row of cages was even now judging the fowls and attaching ribbons to the winning birds as he went along.

“He ’ll come to the Plymouth Rocks in a minute,” whispered Aunt ’Phroney; “let ’s wait an’ see what happens.”

It did n’t take the judge very long to decide. Quite promptly he pinned a blue ribbon to the Bishop’s cage, and Aunt ’Phroney exclaimed: “There! we ’ve got a prize at last, boy!”

The judge looked up, saw the boy, and held out his hand with a smile of recognition.

“Why, how are you, Mr. Carroll?” he exclaimed cordially; “I thought I was the only Durham man on the grounds. Did you drive your new car over?”

The boy nodded.

“They sent for me to judge this poultry show,” continued the man, “but it ’s the poorest lot of alleged thoroughbreds I ever saw together. Not a really good bird in the show.”

“That ought to make your task easier,” said the boy.

“No, it makes it harder. For instance, there ’s the Sweepstakes Prize for the best bird of any sort on exhibition. Tell me, how am I to make such an award, where all are undeserving?”

“Very well, I ll tell you,” returned the boy, audaciously. “If I were judging, I ’d give this fellow’’—pointing to the Bishop—“the Sweepstakes.”

“Eh? This fellow?” muttered the judge, eying Aunt ’Phroney’s pet critically. “Why, I don’t know but you ’re right, Mr. Carroll. I had it in mind to give the Sweepstakes to that White Leghorn yonder, but this Plymouth Rock seems well set up and has good style.”

The Bishop had recognized his mistress, and was strutting proudly and showing to excellent advantage. While the judge considered him, he flapped his wings and gave a lusty crow.

“I ’ll take back my statement,” said the man. “Here is a really good bird. Guess I ’ll follow your advice, Mr. Carroll’; and he pinned a bright yellow ribbon marked “Sweepstakes” next to the blue one on the Bishop’s cage.

Aunt ’Phroney drew a long breath. Her eyes were sparkling.

“How much is the Sweepstakes, jedge?” she inquired.

“It ’s the largest money prize offered—twenty-five dollars—and there ’s a silver water-pitcher besides. I ’m sorry such a liberal premium did