In the midst of our frolic Peter and Sam came on the scene, and as far as Peter was concerned it was indeed a transformation scene.  Sam was very much washed and slick from some time at the wash-bench, and Peter was likewise, only Peter was not the Peter whom I had brought from town that very morning.  He was attired in a pair of Sam’s overalls that could have been wrapped around him twice, and he had a bit of color in his cheeks under his eyes, though the eyes were slightly dazed as to expression.

“Good work, Betty, for only two hours,” said Sam, looking at the three long ranks of slain weeds and then at his watch.  “Pete and I are going to pick peas for to-morrow’s market right after dinner.  Want to help?”

I assented from pure ignorance, and we all went in to devour one of Mammy’s chicken dinners, the like of which is not cooked by another person in the Harpeth Valley.  The way Peter ate would have made the black beauty in mother’s kitchen swell with jealousy until there were danger to her own black skin.  Immediately after the gorge Sam gave me a basket, gave Peter another, and then looked around for the Byrd, with a smaller box; but the Byrd had flown.

“I’ll have to tan him for shirking like that,” said Sam, looking off into the bushes.  “You Byrd!” But there was no response.  That ought to have roused my suspicions, but it didn’t.  I went on down to that pea-patch as innocent as a newly born lamb, with Peter walking beside me, enthusing over the landscape and swinging the light basket with elegant nonchalance.

“I see, Betty dear—­I see that there is a great satisfaction in the pragmatic accomplishment, and—­” he was saying when we came out of the woods onto the southern slope, where lie the long rows of peas, which are making Sam’s fortune.  He got them in by working two days and all one night in a bright spell in mid-February, and nobody for twenty miles around has any, while he has more than he can gather to market at a top price; that is, more than he can gather himself with Byrd’s assistance, he explained to us, as he showed us just how to snap the pod against our thumbs.

“I ought to put five barrels into Hayesboro every day now for a week before anybody else gets any,” he said, as he squatted at the head of a row between Peter and me, and we all began to pull at the beautiful gray-green vines and snap off the full, green pods.  I looked across at poor, innocent, enthusiastic Peter and saw his finish.

About three o’clock I saw my own finish, and threw up the basket.

“You poor, dear child!” exclaimed Peter as he came stiffly across the row Sam had long since finished.  He, Sam, was four rows ahead of us, and a quarter of a mile away, more or less.  I had collapsed, with my tired legs stuck out in front of me and my thumb, swollen from snapping the pods, in my mouth.  “This is too hard work for you.”

“Yes, it is; but Sam won’t think so,” I answered, with a glance at the strong, broad back swinging so easily down the slope.  “Now, Peter, we must go right along picking the peas.  Sam must get those five barrels,” I said, as I hastily scrambled up and began to pull at the vicious vines again.