Sure enough, there was a rough shanty nearly finished; some furrows had
been plowed, and every indication of settlement was present. Mr. Bolton
bit his lip and used language which, if it did not grate on his own
ears, could not on the only other listener, his horse.
Rupert was on the roof of his shanty, and Mr. Bolton greeted him as he
rode up.
"Hello, Rupe, what're ye doin'?"
"Just finishin' my house. It looks like more rain, an' I must have the
roof good an' tight."
"You're not goin' to live here?"
"Oh, yes, part of the time."
"What's that for?"
"To secure our claim. Mother's homesteaded one hundred and sixty acres
of this land."
"What in the world are you goin' to do with it?"
"We'll farm some of it, of course, an' we'll find some use for another
part after awhile, I guess."
Then Mr. Bolton changed his tactics. He tried to discourage the boy by
telling him that it was railroad land, and even if it wasn't, his own
adjacent claim took it all in anyway; Rupert did not scare, but said, "I
guess not," as he went on quietly fitting and pounding.
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